


résidu de poussière et cendre.

by eoghainy



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: And also fluff, Angst, F/M, in which faith lives, tags to be updated as chapters are added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23398105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: faith/fāTH/noun;complete trust or confidence in someone or something.strong belief in God or in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser/Ian Murray
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	1. a question of faith ;

**Author's Note:**

> i know that this idea is all over tumblr, that many times before it's been considered and debated on what faith would have been like if she had survived. how different the series would have been with her alive. i just wanted to put my take on it out there; to add to the growing tithe of content.
> 
> the translation of the title is dust is dust and ash is ash. i don't know why i like it so much, but i do so here we are!

Faith Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser is a wee thing, thin and slight in Jenny’s crooked arms. She sleeps soundly, red hair a right mess and small hands in fists over her ruddy cheeks, letting out little, breathy sighs all the while. Jenny strokes the top of her head with a calloused finger, enraptured by the first – and presumably, only – child that Jamie has managed to sire thus far. She shifts the fragile bundle in her arms, clearly unwilling to wake such a peaceful creature. The youngest Fraser was nigh on a year old, and already she was sleeping soundly through the nights and her naps. A blessing, to be sure; quite unlike her Murray cousins who oft would wail the nights away when they were wee infants.

“She’s a right bonny lass,” Jenny compliments in a hushed voice, and Jamie thinks that the power of his prideful and loving smile could light the room better than any candle. “I ‘eard from Murtagh that this was yer first stop once ye were back on home grounds. Can I ken the reason why, or is that privileged information?”

So, it seems that Jenny was still sore about them not writing to her about Faith’s birth. Jamie would have to apologize for that one later – it had been hard to even think about getting a letter out to his sister when he had been locked in the bastille, and Claire sick in the charity hospital with a child that had been born dead, but brought back just in time. Reunited upon Jamie’s release, they had been more worried about their wee daughter and how frail she seemed, and how they were going to get back to Scotland. And then they had been worried about what was going to happen to Faith during this war, and never once did they remember that they failed in their duty to inform Jenny of Faith’s existence.

His knees were prepared for the bruising they’d receive when he groveled for her forgiveness at dinner.

Sharing a look with Claire, and noting her fresh expression of discomfort, Jamie merely cleared his throat while his wife took the lead on the conversation. “Well, Jenny, we were hoping we could talk with you about something important.” Jamie watches her forcefully pull her eyes from Faith’s sleeping form to meet Jenny’s gaze head-on. “We need a favor, and a large one at that.”

“Let me guess,” Jenny interrupts before Claire can continue on. There’s a hardness to her voice, a protective edge that Jamie finds he does not want to mess with. “Ye want to take Ian wit’ ye to war. Well, the answer is _no_ ; he canna handle it. Besides, he has bairns o’ his own. They should not be wit’out their father. Not to mention that the man is’a cripple! He may be able to ride – but he canna fight. I wilna stand t’ lose that man again.”

Jamie’s heart splits in compassion for his sister. He knew how hard it had been for Jenny to watch him and Ian crest over the far horizon with MacQuarrie and his merry band of criminals, both of them unenthusiastic to be robbing their fellow Scots of hard-earned rents. The very last time Ian had ridden off far from the safety of Lallybroch, he had returned injured and exhausted almost a fortnight later, whereas Jamie had not returned at all. The last Jenny had seen of him was his back as he left home, never to return back to their family. She had received a letter from Murtagh whilst they had been at the monastery, stating plainly that they had broken him out of Wentworth and were planning on seeking shelter from British retribution in France, and that Jamie had sustained grave injuries that he needed to recover from.

Because they fled from the monastery so quickly, hoping to convince Jared of their plight and get to a safe place so that Jamie could heal, there had been no time to wait for Jenny’s response. They had not sent her any letters from France for fear of exposing sensitive information, and for fear of putting her in danger. She had been kept in the dark all of this time, never knowing if British law caught up with them – and Jamie feels deep, terrible guilt for that. He knew what it was like to go unknowing for so long and wouldn’t have put his sister through it if he had any other choice.

“Actually, no this isn’a about Ian – ‘tis about Faith.” He feels quite somber, and the heavy weight in his chest doesn’t ease at Jenny’s sharp retributions. “As ye well ken, a rebellion is no place for an infant. Neither are battlefields. And, Claire – she canna stay behind. _Wilna_ stay behind, stubborn lass. I dinna ken if I blame her fer it.”

“We’ve discussed this at length over the past few months. We’ve been weaning Faith for a few weeks now; she could drink goats’ milk in my absence, and even try some solid food. She sleeps through the night, isn’t a fussy baby – she’s quite well adjusted for one so young.” There is a fondness in Claire’s eyes. “We well and truly don’t want to expose her to the harshness of a rebellion and life on the road, and I can’t sit here at Lallybroch while knowing I can be of more use out there with Jamie, helping to save Scotland. Jenny, we would _more_ than appreciate if you could take Faith into your care and keep her safe during our absence.”

The lines on Jenny’s face become disapproving. Jamie could guess what she was thinking; a mother leaving her infant child to go fight a man’s war? Oh, _blasphemy_ in its highest form _._ He knew that Jenny would rather die than leave her own bairns at such tender mercies, or in the care of another woman. It was understandable; no mother should have to leave her bairn behind while she faced unimaginable dangers. Claire’s strength and resolve in her decision to leave their daughter here, at Lallybroch, for an unknown amount of time continued to both surprise and impress Jamie. It was going to be hard for him, no doubt, but it’d be a thousand times harder for Claire.

“Ye want to leave yer bairn here while ye go save Scotland? Aye, ye both ken ‘m going t’ need more than that to convince me that this is right. A mother canna leave her bairn fer so long, an’ fer such a ridiculous reason! Ye ken it, I ken it; I need more.” There’s a hardness to her a, a type of distance that lets Jamie know that Jenny is _absolutely_ judging them in their decision. As if they had made it easily – many a night were spent discussing every option before them, and many tears were shed over this whole situation. Neither of them _wanted_ to leave Faith; there was no choice in this.

How could they live knowing they were separated from the very piece of them that they almost lost? Faith had been dead at birth, just barely revived by the blessed Mother Hildegard. The cord had been wrapped around her neck, suffocating her as she had been born into this world. It was a miracle that she had been brought back to them. Jamie, upon finding this information out, had vowed to never leave her side. He wanted to watch her with his own eyes, to ensure that no harm befell her; but sometimes . . . sometimes a parent had to choose. And those choices often were the most heart-wrenching to make.

He could refuse meet his destiny upon that wretched moor and spend every waking second of his life studying Faith. He could become the Laird again and forget the happenings around him and succumb to what Scotland would become. He could betray his very country by doing nothing. Or, he could sacrifice Faith’s youth by ensuring that there _was_ a Scotland for her to live in. He could leave her in the capable hands of his sister so that he could make a future for her, one that wasn’t darkened by the British and their heavy hands. He could give her the gift of a trouble-free future, all the while sacrificing the present.

It was a choice Jamie had already made. When they marched off, leaving Faith with Jenny and Ian, he was sure that it would feel like leaving his heart behind. Like when he had left Claire at Craigh na Dun to return to Frank and walked away, he had felt like he was leaving his most vital piece with her; his heart. An organ to be buried forever at Craigh na Dun, where the memory of Claire would eventually fade. Now, he was going to be leaving it in Faith’s small, clumsy hands, in the safe clutches of Lallybroch, where he’d always live on.

Claire closes her eyes. The slow, deliberate breath that leaves her mouth draws Jamie’s gaze back to her. “We’ll tell you the truth of it all – you have to promise to keep an open mind.” There was a low intensity to Claire’s voice that sends a shiver down Jamie’s spine. He was once again reminded of the power that his wife held; and how she could oft command the attention of a room just with a change of her tone and the cut of her eyes. “I promise you, Jenny. What we have to share with you is the truth, and it will at least help you know _why_ we are making such a terrible decision. I don’t _want_ to leave Faith, but I _must_.”

Uncertainty lingers in Jenny’s expression, but all the same she nods. A breath that Jamie didn’t realize he was holding leaves him in a rush, and his shoulders fall back into place.

“Mrs. Crook!” Jenny calls, loud enough to summon the maid but still low enough to not wake Faith. When the elderly woman shambles into the room, Jenny holds the bundle out to her, palm cupping Faith’s head and other hand cradling the small of her back. “Would ye be a dear and put the wee bairn down for a nap? Thank ye.” She transfers Faith into Mrs. Crook’s arms easily, and Jamie does not miss Claire’s longing gaze when the woman takes their bairn away. The ache to feel her in his arms again pulses deep in his chest, and Jamie fights the urge to chase after Mrs. Crook and take Faith from her.

Taking solace in each other in the form of holding each other hands, Jamie and Claire trail after Jenny to the foyer. Jenny opts to stand whilst Claire and Jamie take a seat, sitting close enough that their shoulders and knees brush together with slight movements. Jamie could feel the tension radiating off of Claire like heat off a wildfire; her body, too, was wound just as taut as a bowstring. He longed to calm her down and ease her stress by any means necessary, but there would be time for that later. When they could wrap themselves up in one another in the guest chamber, her in his arms and her hair tickling his face, he could comfort her all he likes.

“Are ye two gonna speak?” Jenny asks impatiently, arms braced against the lip of the hearth. Her cheeks are already becoming flushed from the heat of the fire. “I dinna have all day.”

Jamie takes Claire’s hand, her skin feeling akin to the finest silk, and runs his thumb along her knuckles. This was her story to tell, not his; she had to speak about what she had endured on her own.

So, Claire talks. She talks and doesn’t hold back on any details; every piece of what had happened to her since she has fallen through the stones is laid out on the table. There is a strength to Claire that Jamie cannot comprehend; her head is raised high, shoulders squared down and a proud, unyielding expression on her face. Every bit of information that she offers Jenny, she offers it without any hint of question – she states it as the fact as she knows it to be.

Claire doesn’t hold back about Scotland’s fate, either. She transitions smoothly into the unchartered territory of the future, explicitly laying forth what they were attempting to prevent. The slaughter of thousands of Scots, the loss of freedom, and of everything that made the Scottish people _Scottish_. How the English would take complete and utter control of Scottish lands and her people, how this was essentially the death of the Highlander culture and the wild, independent way of life that they so enjoyed. Their rights would be stripped away and ground into the dust, and the English would treat them like prisoners in their own homes.

Every gruesome, bloody, awful detail is laid down before Jenny like sacrificial offerings. Claire bears the truth of her futuristic soul to Jenny, expecting nothing but faith and trust in return. Jamie aches for her in the wake of Jenny’s startled, completely expected silence; it had taken a lot for Claire to expose herself to Jenny, to reveal all of her vulnerabilities like this. To be seen as crazy, called a witch at best – or a demon at worst. Sharing the truth even though it could cost her the warm, enveloping light of Jenny’s love, of Jenny’s affection.

“Craigh na Dun, ye say?” Is all Jenny manages to get out, effectively breaking the long, terse silence that had settled like a plaid around the three of them. “The fairy hill.”

“Yes, the very same. The ballad – The Woman of Balnain – _I am her_. _She_ is _me_. We are, truly, one in the same. What happened to her has happened to me; all except for the part where she is able to return. I chose not to return to Frank. I am bearing this burden of being a prophet to save this home and the people that I love. I cannot let this future unfold.”

Jamie’s fingers idly trace swirling, intricate designs on the back of Claire’s hand. Ever since she had pointed out this correlation to him, he hadn’t been able to think of the ballad the same way. He’d heard it sung many a times, and never once did he think it was anything more than legend. To have it be so real, so _true_ in its tale, was something that oft left Jamie was some shaken faith. He was a man of education, yet also a Scot. He put his faith in the _believable_ tales that his people took heed of; nothing like stories of time travel and stray women falling through thick slabs of stone.

The expression on Jenny’s face isn’t a flattering one. She looks strained, almost like she had a bad breakfast. Jamie waits for her to speak again, not wanting to rush his sister’s understanding and acceptance of what this truth was. Perhaps his sister had bitten off more than she could chew, but she hadn’t known that when she had asked.

“I know it’s something you never could have imagined; it was incredibly unbelievable to me when it first happened. But, it _did_. It _happened_. I’m here, and I believe that it’s to help stop the destruction of Scotland, to change the future. And . . . so that Jamie and I could be together, on a more romantic note. Believe me, I wished it was fictitious for a long time, just so that I could wake up in my own bed with my husband and go back to the way things were before we took a holiday in Scotland. I wanted so badly to have it not be real.” There’s a small quirk of a smile playing on her lips. “But it bloody is reality. It is _my_ reality.” Claire’s hand turns over in his so that they can lock their fingers together. She’s squeezing, applying slight pressure to the thin webbings between his digits. He squeezes back.

“‘Tis – ‘tis verra hard to swallow.” Jenny swallows almost reflexively. Jamie can see the muscles working in her jaw as the gears in her head turn. “Craigh na Dun,” she repeats in an incredulous tone, “remind me t’ never go there. _Ever_. Lest I be abducted by the fairies and thrown int’ the far future, and away from me bairns.”

_Acceptance_. It was Jenny’s quiet, avoidant way of saying that she believes Claire’s tale, and with that, the weight of the world pulls from Jamie’s broad shoulders. It suddenly redistributes to be carried by the three of them, and they’re all bonded with their shared knowledge of the horrors to come. He and Claire aren’t alone in this any longer.

“So, back t’ the business at hand.” Jenny looks shaken, but she’s brushing past it in typical Jenny fashion. “Ye both want to leave Faith in mine an’ Ian’s care?”

Jamie looks at Claire, careful to keep his expression guarded. The look in her eyes says that it was his turn to speak. “Aye, lass. If the battle of Culloden _does_ indeed come t’ pass, I intend to send Claire through the stones. There is nothing but blood an’ death on this side fer her – and if there is any chance she can live a normal life back in her time, then I canna wish fer more. I wilna keep her here t’ suffer when there is a better place fer her. A _safer_ place.”

“Ye dinna look like ye agree with this, Claire.” Jenny comments, and Jamie holds back a wince. Yet another discussion they’ve had a length, this time with hushed, angry words and shaking tones. And many, many frantic nights of love making; of clinging to one another in desperation, reluctant to be parted for even a _moment_.

“I don’t. I will gladly die upon Culloden Moor with Jamie and the others if it must be, but I made a promise. _If_ the battle happens, I will go through. I don’t have to like it, or agree with it, but I will do as I said I would.” Claire’s hand tightens around his, and he returns the pressure. It feels as if she’s going to break his hand with the amount of force she puts into it.

Jenny is silent. There is an understanding in her eyes now, a realization that her earlier assumptions had been incorrect. This was no easy thing for them to endure. “I’ll take care o’ the lass for ye,” she promises. “Wee Faith will come t’ no harm here, an’ we’ll treat her like our own bairn.” There’s a wry smile on her mouth, and Jamie returns it. The notion feels hollow.

Claire leans forward, bright eyes sparkling. “If I go through the stones, and Jamie does not survive Culloden, you raise Faith as your own. She is a Fraser; by rights, she can live here at Lallybroch. You raise her like she was your child to begin with, and you make sure she is loved and cared for, that she never lacks for anything in this life. You raise her to be the best woman she can ever be, and you make sure that no man _ever_ hurts her. Guide her, don’t let her wander blind like I have for so long.”

Jamie looks at Claire, caught off guard by her request; they had not talked about _this_. Yes, it was the ideal choice, but they had not yet discussed Faith’s care if both of them should no longer be of this world and time. He’d want Faith raised here at Lallybroch, with other bairns her age by her side so that she wouldn’t be lonely, complete with loving parents that would never let her feel the absence of her birth parents. It _was_ the right choice, exactly what he would have wanted for her, but it was not something they had discussed. It was not something he was _prepared_ for.

“Aye, ye have my word. I pray it doesna come to that.” Jenny is silent for a moment before she chuckles. “I’ll tell Ian when he returns. Once he sees that wee lass, I’m sure he wilna be opposed.” There is no trace of doubt in her expression, and Jamie has faith in Ian to hear the condensed story out and understand that it was far beyond his simple life as a farmer.

In a way, it is both a relief and a blow to have these preemptive plans in place. To have the knowledge that if the worst comes to pass, Faith will be loved and cared for; but to also know that it will not be him and Claire giving her that love, that care. It will be his sister and his sister’s husband, loving and raising _his_ bairn. His Faith.

Culloden must not happen. They had to stop it as soon as they possibly could.


	2. a promise given ;

It’s raining. The sound of the fat droplets platter on the rotting roof, disturbing their careful, terse silence that feels as frail as any weak thing. One wrong word and it would shatter their control; it would bring the beasts within them flying out, claws extended and seeking to draw blood. Claire’s jaw is clenched, and she stares at the ground, firsts furling and unfurling at her sides. Rage truly burns hot within her, and Jamie fears how badly he will be burnt by her flames.

“It seems every move we make, we are always thwarted.” Her voice is caught in her throat and oh, so _raw_ , as if Jamie has stripped every protective barrier from her and laid her out with nothing to keep her sheltered. “I cannot fathom going back through the stones. I _cannot_ , Jamie. To leave Faith, to leave _you_. . . It is not something I believe I can do.”

“Ye promised, _Sassenach_.” A gentle approach to her shaking words; his hand is outstretched, fingers reaching to grace her arm, to feel her skin against his own. She rips away from him like he has struck her, as if his touch would leave flowering bruises along her broken edges.

“I bloody know I promised, Jamie!” Her words explode out of her like the ball from a musket. The impact of them feels quite like one; the way they sink into his skin, digging amongst the flesh and muscle, leaving a deep ache in his bones. Claire’s trembling, and Jamie notes that he is too. Little shakes in his fingers, a frantic tattoo against his thigh. He can’t bring himself to reach for her again, for the deep fear of her rejection.

Silence. Her chest is heaving in a way that makes Jamie think that she has been running; perhaps not physically, but emotionally. Mentally. She has been running from this. The truth of what is to come. What she must do. How she _must_ disappear, leaving him and their daughter behind. There is no choice. The fleeing she has been doing must come to a stop; she had to face this. _They_ had to face this. Together.

“I can’t even think about going back, not without feeling _sick_ to my stomach. Like I will _die_ on the spot, in this room, if I must go through those stones and leave you both behind.” Her eyes are dark, whiskey amber encompassed by black. Tears bite at her red waterlines. She is breathless, well and truly. “I’ll never _see_ her again. I’ll never _hear_ her again. I will never feel her skin, never watch her sleep or eat. By the time I land in my time, she’ll be already dead. I’ll never see her grow up, never see her get married, never hold her children or be there when she cries –” A sob chokes her throat, and it is an ugly sound. “I have been _grieving_ since we left Lallybroch, since I held her for the last time. I have been _grieving_ and –”

Claire doesn’t voice the rest of what she’s thinking, but Jamie knows.

_For you, too_. _I have been grieving for you_.

She’ll land in a time where both he and Faith are long gone, churned to nothing but dust beneath the topsoil. No graves. Nothing to visit, nothing to say her goodbye’s too. She’ll be alone in this strange, unusual grief; not one single person would be able to understand just _why_ she was being torn apart from the inside out. The sorrows she would carry in her time would be an enigma, forever hidden under the sheer steel of her survivor’s soul.

Jamie is silent. He has no words to soothe the yawning agony within his wife, has no pretty and poetic statements to make her feel better about what is to come. He knows, to the very depths of his bones, that Culloden will come to pass. It was always fated to be. They had tried their damnedest to stop it, but failure striped their skin and left cruel scars that would never fade.

Instead of potentially invoking her stricken rage, he closes the distance between them and holds her. She sobs in his arms, body trembling with the aftershocks of her anger, and he simply strokes her curls until she begins to calm. Her head pulls from his chest and tilts back, and their gazes meet, and Jamie reads every emotion that he can in her eyes. Grief, love, want; a cataclysmic universe that exists between just the two of them. She’s leaning up to kiss him as he’s leaning down, and the air between them becomes desperate. She’s a right mess; eyes red and puffy, cheeks ruddy and lips chapped, but Jamie cannot help but fall into familiar patterns.

He takes her, frantic and longing and wild, leaving a blemished painting along her hips and breasts, and she leaves welted marks along his shoulders and chest that he was likely not to forget anytime soon. They are still, breathing in the silence between them, and once the vixen within her is sated and quiet, he takes her a second time. Every sound, every curve, every minute detail of her body is committed to the amber of his memory. He worships the alter of her body, offering her complete and utter devotion in return for her love; and when they are complete, returned to one whole soul, he fills her head with crooned sweet nothings until she drifts safely off to sleep.

It’s then, once he’s certain she’s deep in the throes of dreams, that he finds it within himself to weep. He weeps for Claire’s pain, for Faith, and for their family that will never be whole again. Jamie prays to the Lord above for another miracle, for a way for them to somehow manage to prevent Culloden in their final hours – anything at all, short of the murder of the bonny prince. He prays in every language he can think of, with every variation he can put his request in until he, too, is pulled under into heady darkness.


	3. upon the stones ;

The only sounds at Craigh na Dun are Claire’s inconsolable weeping, and the howling, terrible wind that assaults Jamie’s tender eardrums. There is a disconnect between his body and his soul, much like his terrified consciousness has stepped aside to allow him to function without someone at the reigns. Every touch feels wrong, every word spoken without mirth, every expression a hide away from being genuine. He hears the horse snorting down the hill, and the familiar sound of it steadies him. It brings him strength.

They failed. War raged on Culloden as of this very moment; Jamie could hear the musket fire, the cannons as they cracked across the fields like thunder, splitting everything in its path and leaving fear in its wake. Good Scots were dying out there, and there had been _no way_ to possibly stop it. He could see that now that he had the gift of reflection; history wanted the Scots to suffer, to abandon their freedom. So they were. So, it would be.

The stone stands tall and imposing before them, radiating a kind of energy that Jamie cannot begin to comprehend. As it had the first time he had left Claire here, it looked to him like any ordinary stone. A tad bit jagged at the top, in need of a good clean, but a stone nonetheless. Looking at it, he never would have guessed that it held such a terrible and wonderful power, and never would he have presumed that this very stone would bring him his wife, the missing piece to his soul.

“How will I explain all of this?” A soft question from said wife, who’s hand was no longer in his. Jamie’s palm is cooling, and even now he finds himself chasing the feeling of her touch for fear that he will forget. Her hands cradle her stomach where their bairn grows, a mighty wee thing already. “How can I go back?”

“T’ Frank.” There was no question in his voice, no jealousy or bitterness, only resignation. “All that I leave t’ ye.” If he could muster a smile now, he would do so in a heartbeat. He could barely school his expression into proper compliance. “Tell him what ye will about me, about us. It’s likely he’ll no want t’ hear, but if he does . . . tell him I’m grateful.” He can’t hold himself back from touching her, so he does. Their hands, together, rest atop where another piece of him will live on. “Tell him I trust him; and tell him I hate him t’ the very marrow o’ his bones.”

His fingers curl around hers, and gently, he tugs her towards the stone. Claire is like a mule in her refusal, heels dug into the ground and muscles resisting. Jamie doesn’t pull any harder.

“The buzzing,” she whispers. “It’s so loud. I’m not ready, Jamie. I’m _not ready_.” Neither is he. He would never be ready for this, to let go of his very heart. He’s gripping her hand so tightly he fears he will hurt her. “Come with me. We could go back to Lallybroch, get Faith – and we could go through the stones. Together. As a family.”

“Na, I canna.”

“We could _try_.” Denial makes her insistent, blind to what repercussions this could have.

“We’d only be leadin’ trouble back t’ Lallybroch. Faith is too young t’ survive a journey like this, and I canna promise t’ be able to keep her stomach full. What if she canna go through like ye can? It would all be fer naught.” Silence spreads between them, as thick as a plaid and as cold as any winter night. “Besides, isn’a my place. My destiny lies upon Culloden Moor.”

Heartbreak, plain and true, is clear across Claire’s face. She knows he speaks truth, deep down she knows. It is just a terrible thing to accept in the face of reality.

“But, I’ll find ye. I promise. If I have t’ endure two hundred years o’ purgatory, two hundred years wit’out ye, then that is my punishment that I have earned fer my crimes. Fer I have lied, killed, stolen, betrayed . . . and broken trust. But when I stand before God, I’ll have but one thing t’ say t’ weigh against all the rest: ‘Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and _God,_ I loved her well.’” The words come pouring out of him like whiskey out of a flagon, and Jamie’s brain flees from all rationality at the closeness of Claire.

Control has long slipped through his fingers as he gives into one last indulgence, one last proper memory to have in his full arsenal before she is lost to him. There’s no time to savor it, no time to bring her to ecstasy in all the right proper ways. There is only her lips, the warmth between her thighs and the aching in his groin to remind him of the perilousness of the situation they were in. Any long, savoring touches would snap the fragility of his resolve. She had promised to leave, and he had committed to death. Anything more than this would steal his soul from his throat and force his hand in breaking his word.

The calling cries of cannons and musket fire make an unsettling ambiance as they come apart together, lips unwilling to part and bodies unsatisfied. It is a firm, steady reminder that time is up. He had to hurry back, to take his place amongst the men and die with them.

“Our wedding gift, from Hugh Monroe. And a letter, to give to Faith once she is old enough.” Claire is wrapping her two items up as she speaks, and Jamie notes the whiteness of her knuckles. He could not possibly recall when Claire would have the time to write something to Faith, but he does not question it. Somehow, he would ensure that their daughter received this. “You keep them with you.”

She presses the bundle into his hand, and the weight is firm; familiar. “Blood of my blood,” Claire whispers, and Jamie’s throat closes with want.

“Bone of my bone.” The answering call. His voice does not tremble.

“As long as we both shall live.” One final longing, deep kiss that neither can pull away from too soon. But the growing frequency of the firings, the way it begins to sound as if it is closer than before, Jamie knows now that this is what must be done. There must no more be any distractions, no more painful goodbyes.

“Come on.” He helps her up, all the while digging in his pocket for the small ring. “This belonged to my father. Give it t’ the bairn, when he’s old enough.” A band of gold set in the center with a large amethyst; a ring that Brian Fraser had worn on his person every single day that Jamie could remember.

It slides easily onto Claire’s finger, as if it was always meant to belong to her. She doesn’t take her gaze away from his. “I will name him Brian, after your father.”

A strange sensation of peace wells within Jamie at her words, at the promise that they offer. He and his family would not be forgotten with time; they would live on in the twentieth century, carried on by his wife and his bairn. Perhaps not under the name Fraser, but their memories would be immortalized.

“I love you,” Claire says to him, her voice trembling. He thinks what she’s thinking; they will have all but pieces of each other on the other side, a child each and trinkets to serve as links to one another, but it would never be the same.

In these final moments, as he walks them closer to the blessed (damned) stone, Jamie promises himself to never let Claire’s visage slip from his memory. The way her hair falls in curl, framing the sharp angles and planes of her face. Her whisky eyes, and thick set of dark lashes; the rosé of her lips, and the shape they take when she offers him one of her true smiles. Her bonny neck and ample chest, round arse and hips, lean legs; delicate, gentle fingers that had saved his life far more times than he could count. A true beauty she was, and Jamie was a thankful man to have been able to love her for as long as he had.

“And I, you.” A hushed, low answer, followed with their final kiss. He does not allow himself to cry before her, does not allow her to see him about to break – and gently guides her hand towards the stone. In the moment that manages to breathe before she touches it, the brief space in time where no time seems to pass at all, it almost seems that something in Claire would break. That she would fall back upon her word and refuse to go, that she would squeeze out of his arms and run back to the horse. He feels resistance and pure want and just _love_ , and then she is gone.

Where Claire was just warm and _real_ in his embrace, a weight that he could hold onto, she was suddenly gone. Her fingers had brushed against that stone, and instantly, she was gone. Just like that. No warning, no leadup, no way to prepare himself for how physically alone he would feel in her absence. The scent of her lingers on his skin, his clothes, in the air; he can breathe her remnants in and know that truly, she was real. Their love had been as real as the dew on the grass, as the wind in the trees.

She had been real, and she was gone.


	4. and through the fire ;

News comes to Lallybroch of Culloden in the second week of May, bringing word of the immediate yet effective end of the Jacobite uprising. The letter brings no news of the casualty count nor of any loss that their family could have sustained – all it says is that the Murray family, holders of the deed to Lallybroch, will be watched closely by the King’s soldiers in this tentative time. As their connection to one _Red Jamie_ has put them in a frail place, they would need to prove themselves in order to gain their personal freedoms and trust.

In the wake of this letter, Jenny and Ian find it reasonable to believe that Jamie had perished during the battle. That his body would be lost to the unfathomable slaughter that had taken place upon that now-bloodied moor, and that they would never get a chance to say goodbye to him. To give him his last rites. To see him safely into the ground.

It was also quite reasonable to believe that Claire had undergone her journey back through the stones, to a time far out of their reach. Utterly and completely gone. She had not come home to Lallybroch, to where her heart lay, so it was only reasonable. The only correct line of thought, as sad as it was. She was just as lost to them as Jamie was.

Lallybroch becomes a place of quiet despair for some time. The bairns are quiet in their play, picky at dinner, and prone to quick bouts of harsh emotion. Mrs. Crook babies Faith, a presumed orphan now, offering her treats and kind words at every turn. Jenny and Ian, though, mourn for the branch of their family that has been taken away so soon. They had been warned, yes, but it had not been enough to prepare for the emptiness that Lallybroch would now hold within its walls. Jamie and Claire, together, had commanded such a presence – it was impossible to forget that they were there, and daunting to know the silence when they weren’t. Their absence was as sharp as any knife, a constant reminder that one was in his grave, and the other was just _gone_.

Until . . . until the fateful day that a wagon arrives, rattling down the old flagstones and alerting the entire, despairing estate to its presence.

The wagon was loud as it rattled, its wheels hitting each dip and cranny between the stones, the entire thing groaning and squeaking with each inch gained. A tired old horse pulls it, whinnying up a storm as it smells grain, and inadvertently summons Jenny from her washing and Ian from his tilling. Confused yet hopeful, they stand together on the estate stoop, noting the abundance of hay piled in the back.

And then they see the body.

Jamie is weak, incredibly emancipated and frail, skin gray and sweaty, and absolutely _reeking_ of infection. He’s completely a deadweight as Jenny and the carriage driver try to lift him together, with Ian watching helplessly from the ground. Once so brash and bold, a man refusing to be seen as weak – Jamie is of no help to them. His is little more than a corpse as his head lolls on his shoulders, eyes half-open and glazed. Jenny doesn’t know how they, the little old man and her pregnant self, manage to bring Jamie inside the foyer and lay him down, but they do. They prop Jamie up with a few of the pillows, and Jenny summons a bowl of cold water and cloth.

Resentful of being useless, Ian had tasked himself with summoning Fergus and giving him the task of fetching the local doctor. As Fergus does as he is bid, Ian stands behind Jenny with his hand on her shoulder, watching as she gently pads the cloth across Jamie’s sweaty forehead. It doesn’t take long before she grows tired of such a fruitless task, and instead turns to the carriage driver with an abundance of questions.

Where did the driver find Jamie? Who told him to come to Lallybroch, of all places? _Who paid him to do so_? Was there anyone else with him? How long have they been on the road? Was Jamie so sick when he was found? _Did he know who Jamie was_?

The driver had no answers for them, only more questions. His task finished, he took his leave, and left Jenny and Ian feeling fearful. If this man knew that he had been transporting the one and only _Red Jamie_ , traitor to the crown, would he talk? Would he turn over Jamie in an instant for a bag of pounds? Jenny, very briefly, contemplated killing the driver to ensure his silence, but Ian – ever her voice of reason – talked her out of it. If this man had someone to report to, it would only bring suspicion and potential punishment down on their family.

She let him walk free with regret heavy in her heart.

In the time that it took for Fergus to bring back the doctor, Jenny sat by Jamie’s side, holding his hand and counting the moments between his unsteady, shallow breaths. For hours he had the delusional rantings of a dead man; begging for release from this life, for him to be allowed to pass on. “I was supposed t’ die, let me die; jus’ _let me die_.” He’d plead over and over again in his raspy, broken voice, slipping between Gaelic and English, sometimes even French, without even realizing.

At times, he even begged for Claire. Begged for her to come back, to save him from this, to ease his pain.

Begged her to come back. That one statement, hushed words of a broken man, told Jenny what she already knew. Would it be easier to understand, to deal with, if Claire had just died with the rest at Culloden? Would this knot of confused grief ease if she was able to associate Claire with death, and not just – a disappearance? Jamie had been returned to them, by the grace of God, but the part of him that kept him alive was still missing. Would always be missing.

Before Jenny could tell Ian what lay heavy within her, Fergus had come careening through the door, yowling that he had brought the doctor to madame as he had promised. His face is flushed and he’s panting from the effort, but he looks proud. When he sees Jamie, the color drains from his face.

The doctor went to work on Jamie almost immediately, thus revealing the nature of all his physical injuries. Deep, suture worthy lacerations. Broken bones. Hemorrhages underneath the skin. An infection so corrosive and so terrible that the doctor had vocally doubted that he could properly treat it.

When finally finished, and when Jamie, _finally_ was at rest, the doctor explained that the infection coursed through Jamie like the most terrible wildfire, unrelenting and unyielding to any treatment. The fever itself would consume him from the inside out before the day was done, and there would be nothing they could do about it, for Jamie had given up. There was no fight left in him, no strength to survive. His body was too weak to fight it on its own. They could pray for him, pray for him to make a miraculous recovery, but he himself had no hope for such a thing. Not when Jamie himself would not lift a finger to help them.

Empathetically, he told them that he could nurse Jamie, heal his wounds for him and keep him hanging on for as long as possible, but he could not force a man who didn’t want to live to survive this. At this rate, treating Jamie any more than he already has been would be little more than a waste of his precious materials, and a waste of their coin. There was nothing more he could do. Not now, potentially not ever.

It took some time after this revelation, but Jenny and Ian convinced the doctor to stay. Having Mrs. Crook set up the guest bedroom for him, the Murray’s spoke in quiet tones about Jamie, uncaring if he overheard them. They whispered about his state of mind, his health; if he wished to die, there was nothing they could do about it. But . . . cunning Jenny had an idea, and it was a right good one at that.

With a promise to return, Jenny hurries up the stairs and nearly crashes into Mrs. Crook, who was just leaving the extra bedroom.

“The doctor is settled in the guest room, Mistress Murray,” the older woman reports. “I’m going t’ bring him a wee nip o’ whiskey an’ some bannocks. Should I invite him to our dinner later?” Mrs. Crook is looking at her, waiting for explicit permission to do so. “Is that alright, mistress?”

“Yes, yes, right fine.” Jenny dismisses her with distracted tones. “Thank you, ‘tis much appreciated. Would ye mind starting dinner as well? Ian an’ I are going to sit wit’ Jamie fer a bit longer.”

Once Mrs. Crook promises that she’ll start their meal, Jenny continues on her way to the room that Maggie, Katherine and Faith were sharing. The two elder girls were out in the fields with wee Jamie, but Faith, as young as she was, had been put down by Mrs. Crook for a nap shortly before the carriage arrived. The wee thing was barely toddling around on steady legs, but soon enough she’d be chasing around with her cousins through the mud and neglecting to do her chores.

Quietly opening the door to the shared room and picking her way across the noisy flooring, Jenny peaks over the wooden crib to see that Faith was, in fact, still asleep. She was a heavy sleeper, and still slept as if she were an infant; hands curled into fists and covering her ruddy cheeks, so still and so quiet that you could forget she was even there. Gently, without waking her, Jenny takes Faith into her arms and returns back down to the foyer.

Ian watches her come down the stairs carefully, a guarded look in his dark eyes. He was of the belief that if Jamie wished to live, it should be him that comes to this conclusion naturally. He did not approve of Jenny’s plan to use his bairn as incentive.

It’s not like it made her feel _good_ ; it was manipulation at its finest. It was simply going to have to do.

Crouching down beside Jamie’s feverish body, Jenny shifts Faith so that the girl’s head is within her father’s line of sight. None too gently, Jenny nudges Jamie to wakefulness with a bruising elbow, and spares him no smile when his eyes open slowly. He looks distant, so far away; like the fever has already carried him off to a world that was no longer in reach.

“Jamie, _look_. ‘Tis yer bairn; isn’a she a bonny one?” Jenny ruffles thick red curls that are already a right mess, piled loosely on the crown of the girl’s head. Faith’s eyes open, sleepy and heavy-lidded, but aware. _Alive_.

“Claire,” Jamie hoarsely croaks, and one of his hands raise, fingertips shaking with the need to touch Faith. He does not truly see her. “ _Claire_ –”

“No, Jamie, ye sent her through those stones. Ye ken?” Jenny reminds him, sure to keep her tone firm. Grounding.

She knew why Jamie was confused, so easily reminded of his wife at this time. Faith’s eyes were the same shade as Claire’s; the same odd color, whiskey amber with a touch of sunlight filtered through. Though her eyes held the Fraser slant, her face was resembling her mother’s more and more each day. The same chin, the same high cheekbones. The same soft nose. If it weren’t for the red hair, Faith could have been her mother’s reflection. When she was older, fully grown and a woman, Jenny was certain that the similarities between mother and daughter would far outweigh the differences.

“Faith Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser. Ye remember yer own daughter, don’t ye?” Jenny tries again, impatience making her short. “Or, do ye need a reminder Jamie? The lass is right here.”

Confusion plays an ugly ballad on Jamie’s exhausted face. He’s still whispering Claire’s name, riddled so terribly with fever, and his eyes are so glossy and watery that Jenny fears for his sight. His lips are cracked and dry as the moments pass, still forming Claire’s name upon them even though his voice has failed him, and for a brief moment, Jenny fears that Jamie will continue to look past Faith. To see through her. To fail to see the bairn that once he so adored.

And when she fears that this is all in vain, that Jamie has made his choice and that he will be lost to them, the storming clouds upon his face part to reveal the sun. He is as coherent as he could be in this state as he looks at Faith, the confused, painful grief being replaced as he truly _sees_ Faith for the first time. And in that moment, when all hangs within the balance and Jenny is about to give up, Jamie falls in love with Faith all over again. The forming of Claire’s name upon his lips is replaced by his daughters, and in the late hours of the night, she becomes the only thing he cries out for when his delusions grow to be too much to bear.

Jamie’s fever breaks the following morning. He’s able to walk, eat, and piss all by himself in a matter of days, and no longer requires assistance from the doctor or Ian in trivial matters. And when the infection is gone and his mind is completely clear and free from illness, he does not let Faith out of his watchful sight for more than a mere moment at a time. His daughter becomes his only thread to remain in this place, this – their house of painful, disillusioned memories – and together, they _thrive_.


	5. in coats of red ;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've seen the comments piling up on this piece, and holy shit! i'm honestly blown away by the amount of people that are enjoying this piece & leaving their feedback. thank you all so much! 
> 
> i wouldn't say that this fic is my best, not by a long shot, but holy shit. you guys are so awesome. thank you for sticking with this! <3

The patrolling redcoats become a problem very quickly.

With the British not above invading the tenacious privacy of Lallybroch and preforming invasive searches of the house, it became very dangerous for Jamie to stay at his ancestral home. Several times Jamie had barely escaped exposure to the British by the skin of his teeth – and this growing issue led Jamie to start thinking about disappearing to a more remote part of Scotland that was untouched by British patrols. It would be a good way to protect himself and wee Faith and Fergus, but even Jamie knew that Faith was much too young still for a long, turmoil filled journey, and that the road was just as dangerous as peaceful Lallybroch, if not more so with all the bandits, rapists, thieves, and outlaws.

The danger that Lallybroch now holds is a discussion that Jamie oft has with Ian and Jenny, desperate in his need for advice. They have no answers for him, and Jamie is left to ponder the specifics of his next escape. Next time the British come around on one of their randomized patrols, he’d have to be quick in getting out of the estate and into the woods. His typical go-to would be the stables, to bury himself amongst the hay like he once did at Leoch, but the redcoats were greedy and unfortunately very thorough.

Answers and solutions come in the form of a dank cave on the outskirts of Fraser lands, quite large enough for one person – at most, two – to live comfortably if they did not mind bugs, floods, and animals oft intruding. Fergus was the one who discovered it while out with wee Jamie and Rabbie; he is all too quick to bring his eager find back to the stressed family and show them exactly where it was. The pride in him that night at supper had been enough to bring amusement to their dinner table for the first night in many, many weeks.

The discovery of such a hidden place saves Jamie’s life that following morning, for a British patrol rode in early to Lallybroch when the sun was just cresting the horizon. Mrs. Crook had answered the door in lieu of Jenny, and her attempts to divert the patrol gave Jamie enough time to make a quick escape to the cave. He was spared certain discovery and absolute execution, and the decision finally was made that Jamie no longer could live in the estate without putting himself and everyone else in danger.

So, Jamie took up residence in the cave. It was well hidden enough that no one would be able to stumble across it accidentally, but easy enough to find your way back to when needed. When Jamie was nowhere to be found that morning, safe from the prying British eyes, Faith had thrown quite the tantrum when she did not see her father lined up amongst the men. One of the more aggressive British captains had threatened to silence her if she did not hush herself, so Jenny – to prevent blood from being spilled – had taken Faith out to the stables until she had mostly calmed.

Calm being a sniffling, hiccupping, snotty mess with swollen eyes.

When Jamie returned in safety hours later, muddied and in dire need of a hot bath, he shared his discovery that the cave was more like a large burrow than just a cave. “Must ha’ been used fer hibernation,” Jamie had mused as he shared with Ian the details of his frantic escape, and it became very, very important to make that burrow inhabitable so that Jamie would always be safe.

After two months of dodging British patrols, dragging furniture and trunks out into the woods, and tripping over busy bairns underfoot, the burrow had become as homey as it ever will be. It isn’t the most ideal of places for Jamie to live, but it’s his best option to survive through this. It’s a safe place for him to live apart from Lallybroch, and will protect both himself and the Murray family from the crowns wrath. A fearful thing, that.

The years trickle by like water down a stream bed, and time sees Faith grow from a fickle, easy to upset toddler to a quiet young lass. They see a measly six years of peace. She’s seven, nearly eight, when the British come riding into Lallybroch, as they always do, bringing with them demands once more for one Jamie Fraser. As always, the Murray family denies any involvement with the fugitive and promise they’ll send word if he contacts them, but this time – they don’t just ask after Jamie. No, this time, the British flip the script.

This time, they also ask after his bairn.

It is incredibly lucky that Faith is in the fields when they ride in, playing a quite muddy and surely violent game of chase with wee Jamie, Rabbie and Fergus. Her noticeable, telltale red hair is stained with so heavily with muck that it seems to be her natural color, and the British pass over her with no interest, taking her only at glance; seeing her for the dirty child she appeared to be. They are lucky that the British only knew that Jamie had a daughter, and that she had been at Lallybroch at _some_ point; nothing more, nothing less. If they had seen the red hair . . . it all would have been over.

Jamie, after this news is passed onto him, begins to fear for Faith’s safety at Lallybroch going forward. Once a place she could have a future a home for her to grow up surrounded by family and unafraid, it becomes a place of uncertainty. A house of true danger. He didn’t know what the British would do to Faith if they found her – he doubted it’d be something as extreme as execution just for the crime of being Red Jamie’s daughter, but he feared the possibility of her becoming a ward to some pompous English arse. She’d be taken away to England if that were the case, denied the right to be with her family.

Lallybroch was becoming more and more dangerous for the likes of the Fraser family. The British had been turned away with a lack of information today, but they would stand for another dismissal of their inquiries about Faith. It wouldn’t take them too long to notice the extra redheaded bairn that Jenny herself did not whelp and did not look akin to her other bairns. They had orders to find Faith, and they would not be ‘put at ease’, as Jenny said, again.

This discussion became one too prominent to ignore; decisions had to be made. Jenny, with her conniving mind, had the redcoats long since wrapped around her finger – any word that she said to them, it was law. Now, all they were in need of was a plan.

Jamie’s first step, when they had a plan in place, was to contact one Ned Gowan for two documents; the first being a certificate of death, and the other being an adoption agreement. The two communicated through private, secure letters until Jamie had said documents in his hands, both forged and ready to be given to the British upon their next unexpected arrival. He prayed that in Ned’s old age, he had not forgotten how to create false documents, and had not slipped up with these.

Upon his typical delivery of meat that he had hunted himself to the Lallybroch estate, Jamie also brings with him the documents. Jenny and Ian sign the faux adoption agreement immediately, and Jamie makes up some random name to serve as the witness, _and_ uses Ned to be the official who oversaw the adoption. It’s dated back before Faith had ever been in Scotland, but in the end, it would protect her. No one would be able to tell what the truth was, and what the was the lie on this fragile piece of paper.

Since their initial agreement of this illegal plan, Jamie had been thinking. This would keep everyone here safe for a time, surely it would; but what would happen when inevitably, he is discovered? The punishments laid upon both himself and the Murray family, and his daughter would be too much to bear. No, the time for running and hiding has come to a close. It was time to gather himself and do the right thing to protect the ones he loved.

When Jamie tells Jenny his fears and his new idea, Jenny becomes upset. Understandably. The falsified documents were bad enough, but to turn himself over to the _British_? That was a whole other stone to cast. Their night was spent arguing about it in hushed tones in the kitchen, with Ian weighing in whenever things got too heated, neither on Jenny’s side nor Jamie’s. Not only would Jamie’s surrender bring peace to the family, it would also bring them some much needed coin. It would _also_ protect Faith and keep her status as the daughter of Laird Broch Tuarach a closely held secret, and truly keep her from being exposed. With Red Jamie captured, the British would no longer frequent Lallybroch as a place of interest, and it wouldn’t be long before they found a new family to harass underneath George’s official seal.

Jenny seemed to act as if Jamie was keen on going back to prison. After what had happened to him in Fort William, in Wentworth, _and_ in the bastille, Jamie would have preferred to never see the inside of a prison again. But, as Jenny once said, love forced a person to choose.

 _If_ Jamie stayed here, a fugitive under British law, the Murray family would continue to have their home raided and their valuables stolen. The lies would pile up until finally, someone slipped and let one fumble into the light. Faith, growing more and more into a visage of her father every day, would eventually be discovered and removed from Lallybroch – if this line of thought was following the best scenario. Jenny and Ian could be executed as traitors to the crown if Jamie was discovered, too; leaving their bairns orphans.

The consequences of Jamie’s freedom was too heavy a price to pay when he wasn’t the one paying it.

After the British accept the forged documents as fact and promise to stop harassing the Murray family over a girl that did not live with them, Jamie forces Jenny to write a letter stating that Jamie had contacted them and was in dire need of help. He tells her to tell them that he will be at Lallybroch by the third week of April, when the flowers begin to fully bloom, and that the British should be here to pick him up and take him away.

Jenny hates him as she writes it. It’s the first week of March, and she promises to not send it out until the last. He spends the month helping the Murray’s stock up on food, and once the letter is sent out, Jamie switches focus to Faith. It would only be a matter of time before the ambush to arrest him was set, and he wanted to take advantage of the time he had left with his daughter.

They spend time together in his homey burrow, Jamie taking the initiative to teach Faith how to track. Once upon a time he and Ian had taught Jenny, and that skill had come in handy more times than he could count. She’s a quick study and unafraid of getting her hands dirty, just like her mother had been. Jamie would have liked the time to teach her sword play, to teach her to shoot, to hunt – but there was no time left. Learning to track, to read the land, simply would just have to do.

The night before the ambush comes quickly. Jamie takes Faith out to his burrow for the night, just needing to spend as much time with her as he could before he was taken away. They eat dinner together by the fire, potatoes and chicken, and Jamie finds himself unable to speak to her as he gets started on tidying his appearance. The scissors clip steadily as she turns the pages of a book Jenny had lent her, engrossed completely in the words on the page.

Looking at the long, wet red strands on the ground, Jamie sighs. He was a coward. If he could, he would lie to her and tell her it was going to be fine; but Faith deserved to know just _why_ he was going to be leaving her. She knew her mother had left her – the basis of that, of course – and now her father was leaving her too. _She deserved to know_.

“Faith,” Jamie says quietly. “Would ye put yer book down, just fer a moment?” Through the broken shard of glass that serves as his mirror, Jamie watches as Faith marks her spot and puts the book down. She’s looking at him, apprehension in her eyes. “I must talk wit’ ye.”

“I ken something is going on.” Faith swings her legs nervously. “Mrs. Crook keeps giving me treats. She only does that when she feels bad fer me. I canna count the amount o’ cookies I’ve eaten today.” She sadly pats her stomach, though Jamie doesn’t fall for her attempt at guilt. Faith always found a way to charm herself some extra treats.

Putting down the scissors, Jamie turns to face Faith. She’s watching his every movement carefully, much like the way Claire used to follow him with her gaze from across the room. Faith reminds him of Claire more and more each day, and it breaks Jamie’s heart to know that in a way, he was losing her all over again. He was losing both of them. Gently taking Faith’s hands, he crouches down in front of her, unsure of how to put it in a way that she could understand.

“Ye remember when we told ye that I was wanted by the redcoats, an’ ye had to be verra careful on who ye mentioned me to?” Faith nods slowly. “And when we had t’ protect ye from them too, so we had t’ lie an’ change yer name, at least fer them?” She nods again. There’s caution in her expression now, and her body tenses, as if she is braced for him to drop something on her. She was always so intuitive, and sometimes that did not work in her favor.

Faith looks at him in silence, waiting.

“Things have gotten verra dangerous, an’ it’s putting ye in a lot o’ danger. If the British found ye because of me . . .” Jamie’s voice trails off. “I canna keep putting ye and everyone else in danger, so tomorrow, the British are going t’ arrest me. Ye’ll stay here wit’ yer aunt an’ yer uncle, they’ll raise ye right.” He squeezes her small hands, dwarfed by his. “I dinna want to leave ye, but there is no other choice, _mo chridhe_. I must protect ye, I gave my word to yer mother.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and when they do, Jamie watches as his daughter essentially transforms into her mother. The same stubborn set to her jaw, the same fire burning in her eyes, the same angry pull to her brows; she is her mother’s daughter. “I’ll go wit’ ye,” she says boldly. She didn’t know what prison was like for Scots – they hadn’t ever taken the time to explain the horrors of it to her. “I wilna be left here.” For a seven-year-old, she knows what she wants.

“Faith, ye canna come wit’ me. Prison is no place fer a wee lass. Fear not – I’ll still make time to send ye letters. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll even get out early, if I’m good.” A false promise. Faith knew that ever since the Scots lost the Jacobite war, Jamie had been declared a war criminal for his part in it. She just didn’t know _how much_ of a part he played, and how Red Jamie would not be allowed to go free from prison once he was caught. Perhaps giving her hope was a cruel thing to do, but he could not stand to leave her in sorrow.

“But – I dinna want ye to go!” There were tears gathering in her eyes now. “Rabbie makes fun of me because I have no mother, he’ll make fun of me fer not having a father, too. Ye canna leave me – ‘tis isn’a fair.” A tantrum was beginning to well up within her. Jamie didn’t want the night to be filled with hysterics, no, he had to act fast.

“ _Mo chridhe_ ,” he croons as he pulls her against his chest, hand soothingly rubbing on her back. “Dinna fash yerself, _mo chridhe_ , dinna fash . . . Ye need not be afeared. I may not be here, at Lallybroch wit’ ye, but ye will never be wit’out me. I am always with ye.”

Faith, once she had cried herself into exhaustion, fell asleep in his arms. Jamie held her close as she slept, heart aching in his chest as night turned into morning. He didn’t get a wink of sleep, for he had spent his night studying Faith’s sleeping face. She was going to grow up to be a beautiful woman, just like her mother was. Is. Had been.

When it’s time for him to be arrested, Fergus comes to collect him. He had snuck out of Lallybroch to tell him that the British were in place, just waiting for him to arrive. Jamie asks Fergus to stay with Faith and take her back to the estate when she’s awake and leaves the boy with a tight, sad hug and a whispered proclamation of love.

_Goodbye, mon fils. Goodbye, mo chridhe._

* * *

Claire’s fingers tap a battered rhythm on the counter, and her gaze doesn’t pull from the rotary phone as she hears Brianna rustling around in the pantry, presumably searching for the snacks that Claire had placed up on the top shelf. Mrs. Graham was supposed to be calling her soon with the information she had asked for, and anticipation ate a hole in her stomach as she waited, _longing_ for the phone to ring.

It was May 12th, Faith’s birthday. The sun was shining, soft golden rays that beckon Claire to come outside and tender to her garden, but she resists in lieu of sitting before the phone. Any minute now, Mrs. Graham would call. Any minute now . . . any minute.

“Mama, what are you looking at?” Brianna, five years old, stands on the tips of her toes to look at the small portrait clutched in Claire’s grasp. Clearly, she had abandoned her search for snacks.

Following her daughters gaze, Claire looks down. Before she had gone through the stones, Jamie had gifted her with a painted portrait of Faith – a token to remember their daughter by, if she had to go through the stones. It was still in pristine condition, even after all these years, every detail finely painted onto the canvas. In the portrait, Faith’s eyes are closed, but Claire can still remember her daughter in the fine amber of her memory. Such a small thing, so young; completely out of her reach.

“It’s a picture of your great, great grandmother.” Claire lies smoothly, knowing that there would be no one to contradict her on this. “My uncle Lamb sent it to me.” Gently, she hands the portrait of Faith to Brianna, making sure that her daughter held it carefully. Claire thought that her heart would well and truly break if something happened to it. “Wasn’t she a pretty baby?”

Brianna studies it curiously, big blue eyes absorbing every detail that she could process. “She was.” She says, considering the portrait. “Was I that small, mama?”

“Yes, yes you were. You were a bit bigger than her,” _Faith_ , “but you were just as tiny, my love.” Claire strokes her thumb along the curve of Brianna’s forehead, gently nudging her hair out of the way. Her daughter looks so much like Jamie, even now, that it took her breath away. “Are you finished watching your show, love?”

It was Saturday morning, so Brianna was allowed to watch the morning cartoons. She hands the portrait back to Claire and runs off into the living room without another word, red curls bouncing wildly with every movement. Claire watches her go, then turns right back to the phone.

As she looks at it, studying the rotary dial and willing it to ring, the universe provides for her. Claire hardly gives the phone more than a moment before she snatches the it right off the hook, heart pounding wildly in her chest. It had to be Mrs. Graham. It just _had_ to be. “Hello?”

“Claire!” Mrs. Graham’s happy voice sounds through the speaker, and relief spreads throughout her body. “How are ye on this fine mornin’?”

Unable to help herself, Claire smiles as she leans against the counter, Faith’s portrait within reach. She had missed Mrs. Graham and her fine council. “I’m doing alright, Mrs. Graham. How are you?”

“Just enjoying a cup o’ tea outside.” Claire can hear the echoing smile in her voice. Mrs. Graham always had an abundance of smiles and hugs, and Claire misses her so terribly. “I found what ye asked fer, right in the Father’s records. A few documents; one fer adoption, another a certificate o’ death, and a few odd letters written in French that I canna make sense of. Ramblings, really.”

Death certificate. Claire’s fingers close into a fist anxiously. “Let’s start with the adoption agreement, then.”

“Well, dear, ‘tis fer the adoption of one Ellen Fitzgibbons Beauchamp, adopted by Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray and Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Long names, aye? T’was oversaw by an Edward Gowan, and the witness was some . . . the name is too faded, but I can see a last name; Mackenzie. T’was signed in August of 1744.” Mrs. Graham reports faithfully. “And the death certificate . . . aye, ‘tis fer one Faith Elizabeth Fraser, who allegedly died o’ smallpox in – I think that says November of 1750. This one is a wee bit more faded than the other one, so I canna be too sure.”

Claire’s heart would have stopped beating in her chest if she wasn’t so _confused_ by what Mrs. Graham had said. The adoption agreement had her last name, quite the uncommon one, and the child _was_ adopted by Jenny and Ian. But, the death certificate was for Faith. Faith Elizabeth Fraser. It was missing just one piece of her name, the piece on the adoption certificate.

The child was evidently adopted before she and Jamie had come back to Scotland; in August of ’44, they were just about to gather their belongings and board a ship back to Scotland with Faith, who was only a few months old at the time. When they arrived in Scotland and made their way back to Lallybroch, to home, Jenny and Ian did not have an adopted child. They had another that Jenny had birthed, but not one that was _adopted_.

“Didn’ye say yer daughter’s name was Faith, Claire?” Mrs. Graham asks. Claire can hear the caution in her voice, and she closes her eyes. “It looks like this is an authentic piece, and t’was lumped in wit’ Lallybroch’s records. The Murray’s were the last holders o’ Lallybroch before British rule became absolute.”

“Yes, you’re right. But – it’s wrong. When I came back to Scotland from France, Ian and Jenny didn’t have another child. Not one that they had adopted, and certainly not one named Ellen. That was Jenny’s mother’s name.” Claire neglects to mention Jamie, just in case Brianna was listening. She didn’t need any questions along that line today, not when her thoughts were so filled with him already. “I just don’t understand. What do the fragments of the letters say?”

Claire can hear the shuffling of paper as Mrs. Graham shuffles around to get them. “Well, one letter talks about Ardsmuir Prison, which was a place Scottish prisoners were oft taken an’ watched over by the English. Not too kind o’ a place, though it did get better as it fell t’ kinder hands. It shut down and sent all of its prisoners to the colonies fer indentured servitude.” Mrs. Graham prattles on, giving Claire a history lesson she did not ask for. “The letter is written in French, like I said before, an’ ‘tis a poorly kept letter, so some o’ it is hard t’ read. ‘Tis addressed to _mo chridhe,_ which means –”

“My heart.” Claire finishes for Mrs Graham. Jamie had said it to her before, and she remembered it well. “Who was it written by?”

Silence. Then finally, “’tis signed by an Alex Mackenzie. The other letters – they talk about missing home, mostly. An’ whomever this _mo chridhe_ is. There’s not much else t’ the letters, Claire.” Mrs. Graham almost sounds disappointed, as if she had been expecting more. Claire can relate. She, too, had been expecting a little more than this.

“Alex Mackenzie . . .” Claire peeks over her shoulder at Brianna, glad to see that she was still focused on her show. She lowers her voice, though, just in case. “One of Jamie’s middle names was Alexander, and one of his last names was Mackenzie. He must have been the one to write the letters, I’m sure of it.”

“Aye, it would make sense.” Mrs. Graham agrees. “But that doesna explain the two other documents.”

“No, it doesn’t. I have no explanation for those. They contradict what I had experienced.” She looks down at the portrait of Faith again and gently touches it, heart hurting as she traces Faith’s captured likeness. _Did you die of smallpox at six years old, Faith? Is that what happened to you, my little love?_ “Thank you, Mrs. Graham. I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“T’was no problem, my dear.” Mrs. Graham answers sweetly, and for a time they talk, just catching up. Claire tells her all about Brianna and how she’s growing so quickly, and Mrs. Graham tells her how little Roger, too, is growing into a fine young man. When Brianna starts asking for lunch, the program occupying her now over, Claire gets off the phone and makes lunch for the two of them.

Her heart is heavy as they eat, barely hearing Brianna as she prattles on about her cartoon. Her thoughts are filled with Faith and the documents, and right now, she is back in the eighteenth century. Those papers were contradictions, complete and utter contradictions; and Claire, for the life of her, couldn’t figure out why at least _one_ of them was a false piece, and for what purpose it served. The adoption was the false one – it had to be; she had met Jenny and Ian’s children, and she _knew_ they had not adopted another, not with how tight their funds typically were. They couldn’t afford another mouth.

The death certificate was throwing her for a complete loop. Faith’s full name was Faith Elizabeth _Beauchamp_ Fraser. An official document would not be missing part of her last name. The child that Jenny and Ian allegedly adopted had _her_ last name in the full name. Was it possible that . . . that Faith’s death was _faked_? Jamie had been a very intelligent man, that was for sure; it would be just like him to come up with a wildly concocted yet somehow possible solution to save someone that he loved. It would not be far out of the realm of possibility.

“Brianna! Hello, darling,” Frank’s voice breaks Claire from her reverie. She looks up to see him coming into the kitchen, Brianna on his hip, and offers him a weak smile. He doesn’t return it. Any brief happiness she had turns to ash in her mouth. “Did you already eat lunch?”

“Yes, mama made us pasta. I tried mine with _sauce_.” Brianna was a very picky eater, so they had been trying to expand the minuscule amount that Brianna liked. So far, one win for Claire. Her voice was filled with pride as she told her father how she had been very nervous to try it.

“Did you like it?” Frank asks, and finally smiles when Brianna nods vigorously. “Good, I’m glad. Why don’t you go wash up, and I’ll take you out to the park as I promised?” As soon as he sets her down, Brianna goes racing off into her room, and Frank turns to Claire with a disapproving expression on his face. There is a tight set to his jaw that reminds her of Jonathan, and her heart stutters. “You’re not here right now, are you?”

Claire blinks, understanding exactly what he means. “I’m here.”

“I can see it in your eyes, you aren’t. The dishes are still on the table, the spot where Brianna ate is a mess – and there are still dishes in the sink, dirty. Clearly you _are not here_ , Claire.” Impatience bites at his voice, and Claire just barely resists the urge to flinch. “What is wrong with you today, Claire?”

For a moment, _just_ a moment, Claire debates on telling Frank to go fuck himself. That would be the easy road, wouldn’t it? She could start a fight so easily, cause him to storm out angrily, and they could go on with their normal routine. But she doesn’t. The need to confide in someone, to _tell_ someone what lay heavy on her heart, was just too much. It felt like everything she had been holding in was about to overflow, and her tight lid of control blows off.

Wordlessly, Claire slid the portrait towards Frank. He took it gingerly, holding onto the edge with his thumb and forefinger. “Her name was Faith. Today is her birthday, _that_ is why I am ‘not here’, as you so clearly said.” Her voice is heavy with bitterness. “Apparently, she didn’t live past six years old. Smallpox. Barely older than Brianna when she died.”

Frank gives her back the small piece of canvas. His expression is somber, but very unforgiving. His levels of patience and empathy for her had been running thin as of late. “You looked to find when she died, didn’t you.” A statement. “After a promise of leaving the past _in the past_ , you looked for her.”

“She’s my _daughter_ , Frank. _I_ _had to know_.” Claire was just barely keeping her voice down. “I left her without saying goodbye. She wasn’t even a toddler yet. A child is a piece of you, and I left her. So please, _allow me this one day_.” Keeping herself under control was proving harder than she thought. They had been careful thus far through Brianna’s childhood to keep their fighting to a minimum; Claire was not about to expose her to this now.

Thankfully, she was saved from hearing whatever it was Frank was going to say by Brianna bounding down the stairs. “Ready to go, lovely?” He asks as he holds his hand out to her, and Claire watches almost resentfully as Brianna takes it. Frank still looks angry, and his knuckles are white around Brianna’s hand.

“Bye, mama!” Brianna waves to Claire as Frank takes her out the door, and Claire waves back, both relieved yet regretful that she’s alone in this big, empty house with her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its currently .... 12:30 am. i have no idea what people used in place of adoption agreements & death certificates in the 18th century. the answer is probably as simple as 'nothing'. i do not like this answer. i am so tired the words are blurring together. i cant tell what italicized spots are lacking spaces and what aren't 
> 
> free me from my purgatory


	6. je suis prest ;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT it's been a hot second. hello everyone!
> 
> i got . . . fucked by quarantine, lmao. my mental health took a huge toll for the worse & i was struggling to even think about writing, let alone being able to follow through. this chapter kinda reflects that mental displacement and oof, i feel bad it isn't quite quality, but i want to get back on the wagon of updating and continuing on.
> 
> this is about to be a shameless plug, but i also started streaming on twitch for something to do. my user is saraxemily, so check me out if you're ever bored! i try to stream every single day.
> 
> REGARDLESS, i would just love to say thank you to everyone who has said such kind words about this, and has been a support. you guys are great <3

“Harder, like that – _good_ , that was nice, _la petite sœur_.” Fergus presses the tip of his sword into the ground and leans against the hilt as it remains upright. The blade bends under his weight but does not give. Faith eyes it warily, wishing for a moment that it would give and send Fergus sprawling. It would be a nice show of clumsiness to take away from his perpetual grace that he _loves_ to flaunt. “Do not be afraid to put more power into your strikes. You are _petite_ ; you will need force to make your enemies bow.”

Faith follows suit with her sword, but she does not lean against it. Instead, she folds her arms over her chest and frowns, unhappy to still be called small by Fergus. “I’m already taller than wee Jamie,” she points out. “Mam says that I’ll be as tall as Da in no time.”

Two years had passed since Jamie’s arrest. In that time, the British patrols had indeed grown less frequent; they were also less demanding when they dropped by, and less invasive. Peace had returned to Lallybroch, and the estate was considered home once again, a safe place for children to grow without the British breathing down their necks, waiting for a wrong move. An _excuse_ to arrest ex-supporters of the Jacobite Uprising. Since then, in Jamie’s absence, Faith had grown like a weed; she was several inches taller than her cousin, who was three years her senior. Wee Jamie did not like this fact, no he did not like it at all. It seems that he was unlucky to inherit his mothers height.

“ _Oui_ , you are, but you are as thin as a twig. A gust of wind would knock you over, _la petite sœur_. That is why you must have _force_ behind your attacks. You can prick a man with the tip, but it will not kill him unless you _make it_ kill him. It requires strength.” Fergus sighs as he plops down onto the ground. His dark curls are shaggy and long, hanging annoyingly in his eyes, but he has grown into his round face and wide, big eyes. His French accent, though, would never leave him. It still clings thick to every word he speaks. Faith doubted that he would ever grow out of it.

“Ye talk as if ye have been in battle before.” Faith follows his movements and sits, her arms aching from their practice. Fergus drilled her like she was a soldier and offered her no reprieve. He had been training her consistently since a letter from Jamie arrived asking him to do so, and Fergus was no slacker when her father made a request of him. At this rate, though, Faith wished he would slack. Just a bit.

Every single morning and afternoon Fergus had her out in the fields, practicing and practicing and _practicing_ until she was too exhausted to even stand properly. Sometimes wee Jamie would join in, if Ian didn’t need his help with chores, and Faith would put his skills to shame in an instant. Okay, maybe this was why wee Jamie didn’t like her too much; she was taller than him, better than him at swordplay, and a girl . . . finally, a mystery held answers. Ian oft warned them to be careful – weapons were outlawed in Scotland still, and to be found with them would do no good for their family. Many times now they’ve barely saved themselves from discovery, and inevitable arrest.

“I have.” Fergus states matter-of-factly. There is a certain edge to his voice that warns Faith from prying, but she does anyway, unwilling to let such information slip through her fingers. “Battle of Prestonpans, during the uprising. It was the only battle I have ever fought in. _Le sang coulait dans les rivières à travers les champs_.”

It took a moment, but the words translated automatically for her. _Blood was flowing in rivers across fields_. The statement alone was enough to chill Faith to her core. She shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t make him relive it, but when has she ever had a shred of self-control? She was the child of two very stubborn, and very hard-headed people, after all. The following words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

“Have ye ever killed anyone?” Faith asks Fergus confidently, watching as his face quickly becomes haunted. Regret bites at her as she clarifies, unwilling to back down now. “At Prestonpans.”

“You do not need to clarify the place,” Fergus murmurs. A part of him sounds lacking, as if he were numb on the inside. Dead. “I know what you meant.” His thin hands suddenly seem to become very interesting to him, the long lines of his artists fingers, the curve to his knuckles. “As you know, milady was a healer. _La Dame Blanche,_ they would call her because of her skills. During the battle, she was in charge of setting up _à l’hôpital_ , and she wanted me to help her so I did not feel useless, or be fighting where I was not wanted. I was too young to properly be in a battle, you see. But I did not want to be with the women, the healers, so I disobeyed milord’s orders and went regardless.

“It was so loud, so confusing. I could not tell who my foe was, and who was my friend. I could not tell up from down, right from left. But, I saw the British soldier before he saw me. I took my knife, and I stabbed him. Right here.” Fergus touches his sternum with two fingers, the absolute center of his mass. “His blood stained my hands. I went back to milady after, and she was _horrified_. I had disobeyed her and milord. I had killed someone. What I had done was wrong, and yet they forgave me for it. His face stayed in my dreams. I could not sleep without him haunting me. I had taken his life, and the worst part . . . _Mon dieu_ , I would do it again. For milord. For milady.”

Silence stretches between them. Hesitantly, Faith reaches over to touch his arm, the silk of his shirt feeling soft against her fingers. She doesn’t have words for what she knew he would confess.

“It still scares me how easily the dagger went through his skin. _Right_ through. Like I was cutting a feather.” Fergus’ gaze is trained on the ground. He’s very far away in this moment, beyond touch. “I should have stayed with milady that day.”

“What was she like?” Faith asks softly, her voice so low that she wasn’t even sure she spoke. She finds herself being more cautious than usual, almost as if she were afraid of what his answer would be. Her father didn’t talk much about her mother, and neither did the Murray’s. Fergus was her only source of information, her only present book with unread pages. She was abusing his openness, his willingness to confide in her, and they both knew it. “Milady.”

The despondency in Fergus is chased away by her question. With a quiet sound, he pulls Faith against him, and she goes willingly. His chest is broad and hard underneath her cheek. “Milady was . . . I cannot put into words how special she was. She and milord took me into their homes in Paris, made me their own – gave me a life that I otherwise would not have. They loved and protected me like true parents, ones I have never had. When I met her, she was with child. You. _La soleil de sa vie_.”

Faith can feel Fergus looking down at her, and with her heart in her throat, she avoids looking up at him by staring out across the fields where a foal runs, trapped on a lead. It kicks and rears every few steps, reluctant to grow used to the tie that keeps it pinned down. In this moment, Faith feels for the baby. Her heart goes out to its wild dreams of freedom, ones that were struck down by cruel realities of captivity.

When she doesn’t answer him, Fergus moves on. “Milady was enchanting. She was a healer and could save any man from death if she so decided. But, milady also could kill. She was English and beautiful, with dark hair, dark eyes. When I did wrong, she was not afraid to scold me. When I was sad, she would hold me and tell me she loved me, and that she would be there for me. She made sure I was fed. Warm. Healthy, always. I never knew someone more caring than milady.” His voice is filled with a raw longing, and with a painful pull, Faith realizes that she would never know her mother like this.

She would _never_ know this Claire that Fergus spoke of. Never would she meet her, never would she speak to her or _touch_ her. Never see the familiar lines of her own face reflecting back at her. Fergus had gotten exactly what she had been longing for her entire life; he had _her mother_. Jealousy is a sharp sensation in her chest as she swallows, unreasonably angry with the boy she has called her brother her whole life.

“Milady had a natural instinct for caring for people; no one would suffer in her presence, not if she could help it.” Fergus carries on, like he has not noticed Faith’s sudden change. “She and milord loved one another, too. Their love was unlike any other I have ever seen, it was so true and so . . . _raw_ , in a way. They fought a lot in Paris, but once they were home, I saw truly how France had been a bad place for them. It nearly broke their marriage.

“Milady was resilient. Fiery. She did not let anything get under her skin. She refused to leave milord’s side during the uprising; a lady should not be on the field, but milady was unlike the typical lady. In France, she made most doctors jealous with her medical skill. Milady missed you when she was at war; she wanted to be home with you, but the war . . . she could not let milord fight alone, not when she could help. _Mon dieu_ , I miss milady.”

The grass beneath them had left deep lines on her knees. Faith studies them, her throat thick with emotion. Some good, some bad. A piece of her longs to rage at Fergus, to hate him for taking advantage of what she was missing, but another piece of her wants to weep alongside of him at what he has lost.

No piece of her remembered her mother, not one bit. Sometimes, in her warmer dreams that reflected a time of spring and happiness, she’d hear a gentle, lilting voice sing to her – a song about the seaside, she thought. A familiar voice. A _loving_ voice. Other than these small moments through her deepest sleeps, she had no recollection of the woman that had given her life, that had allegedly adored her from the moment she was created. Jenny was the only mother she’s known, the only maternal love she’s ever craved more than anything else. 

And yet, Faith still finds herself aching for that missing piece.

“I dinna remember her.” Faith confides quietly. “Da says I have her eyes. Her face. I canna see her when I look in the mirror, only me.”

“You were young.” Fergus sighs. “Too young; of course you wouldn’t remember her.”

“But I _want t’_. I want t’ know her. Remember her. It isn’a fair that everyone but me gets to remember _my_ mother. I want t’ be in on this experience. _I want to know her._ ” Faith feels like an insolent child complaining about whatever it is that she didn’t get. “I dinna even ken what happened t’ her.”

Hesitation comes from Fergus for too long – Faith feels his stiffness, his reluctance. “. . . Milady is gone. After the uprising, she is just – gone. That is all milord would ever say.”

“Gone.” Faith repeats, her voice lacking. “Just gone.”

It felt like there was a secret about her mother that Faith was not privy to; a hidden bit of information that everyone else got to know, but she didn’t. Only she was kept on the outside of this glass wall. Everyone would always just say that Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall Fraser was _gone_ , that after the uprising she disappeared.

_But where did she go_?

None of it made sense. If she loved her and her father so much, if she was as devoted to her family as everyone said, how was she able to leave? It didn’t make sense. _It just didn’t make sense_. Either her mother was dead and no one wanted to tell her that, or her mother was in hiding and everyone was lying for her, or – Faith didn’t know. She didn’t have any other possible options, any scenarios that would work with the information that she had.

Perhaps, it was just going to remain a mystery until the end of her days. As much as that tore her apart inside, there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could uncover to solve the mystery of Claire Fraser, and her thorough disappearance from this world.

* * *

“There’s a letter fer ye, Faith,” Jenny calls at her from the kitchen, voice barely louder than the clamor of boys playing in the parlor. “I left it on the table. I ken it’s from yer father, looks quite like his scrawl.” She’s busy chopping something up, Faith notes as she calls confirmation and heads into the dining hall, eagerly making a beeline right for the letter that sat prettily at the end of the table. The use of her birth name from Jenny is a relaxing thing to hear; it meant that they were safe, that no ears were listening in upon them in order to catch them in their bold lies.

Besides, Faith preferred her birth name.

Eagerly, Faith snatches the letter up and tears the seal, leg bouncing with impatience as she prepares to skip through the droning preface her father always put. Sweet affections in Gaelic, gentle tales of prison life, things to keep her unconcerned and unbothered by his absence. He always starts off his letters like this, unsuspecting and loving, and then, once he’s certain that anyone who is reading their correspondence has grown bored, he gets into the truth of things. Of who _she_ is. It was all, always, to protect _her_.

Most of the times, his letters hold a depressive tone. His lament of missing her grow up, the ache he feels at being away from her for such a long stretch of time. How he hopes that she is happy, that she is not lacking for anything with her new family. With every passing birthday, every year that he misses, the more depressed his letters become. The less he speaks of returning, too. Faith was no idiot; she knew her father wasn’t leaving that prison. He’d likely die there before they ever chose willingly to release him.

But this time, it’s different. The _letter_ is different.

The preamble she’s grown accustomed to is gone. The long, rambling paragraphs in a familiar hand aren’t there. Instead, all that is written is two sentences, in a small enough print that she has to squint. No address, no sign off. No date.

_In a fortnight, a carriage will come for you with one Lord John Grey. Be ready_.

Confused, Faith checks the letter for any sign of tampering, for any indication that it was not written by her father, but there is none. It’s his neat, scrawling hand; his exact tone that he uses in his writing. His direct way of ordering. Uncertain of it, Faith reluctantly shows the letter to Jenny, who seems just as confused as she is.

Even _Ian_ is baffled by it, and he oft claims to know Jamie best. Not that anyone there doubted him; even Jenny was not privy to most of what happened in Jamie’s mind.

A fortnight passes them by easily, and with each day that drones on, Faith finds herself growing more and more worried about this upcoming date. Lord John Grey – she had _no_ idea who this man was, and her father expected her just to get in a carriage with him? Perhaps there was a small part of her that relished the idea of an escape from idealistic farm life, to travel across open Scottish lands and truly _see_ what she was missing out on, to witness firsthand the freedom she could have, but once again, Faith wasn’t an idiot. The chances of her returning from such a venture were even slimmer than she was.

The morning finally came when a pristine carriage came riding in through the old walls of Lallybroch, making enough noise to wake an army. Stern words snapped from Jenny kept Faith from going outside to speak with John herself, and frustration welled within her at her previous actions. She never should have shown Jenny and Ian the letter; that way, she could have spoken with this John Grey herself. Now, it was out of her hands.

From what she could see through the windows, he was, truly, a handsome man. Sharp angles to his oddly delicate face, luminous eyes that offered every single one of his expressions to the world, and light hair tucked back into a neat ponytail. He was clean cut and proper, dressed to the nines in fine fabric that cut his figure in an appealing way, all of which showed his absolute and undeniable stature as an Englishman. Faith was suddenly stuck with distrust that she could not shake. English was not a pretty thing to be here, and it certainly wasn’t a _trustworthy_ thing to be.

As quietly as she could, Faith slid open a window nearest to Jenny and, presumably, _the_ John Grey, and crouched down so she couldn’t be seen eavesdropping. If she was caught, Jenny was going to be _more_ than upset, and perhaps tan her hide. She did not need to give Jenny another reason to be angry with her.

“No, sir, there isn’a Faith ‘ere.” Jenny lies smoothly, an answer to a question Faith did not hear. Anger stirs in her bones, lighting along her nerves. “Jus’ our wee Ellen, and my own bairns.”

The British man doesn’t sound convinced when he answers. “Are you sure, madam? Mr. Fraser told me about his daughter, the redheaded one. He said you’d try to protect her. She’s under no harm; I owe Mr. Fraser a debt, and I am simply bound by my word to repay it. His favor to ask of me was to see his child. The lanky redheaded girl that likes to play with swords, with the curly haired boy? Must I repeat the chosen name for her that _isn’t_ her name?”

“Faith Fraser died years ago,” Jenny replies stubbornly. Faith curls her fingers against her thighs as she holds her temper. “Ye will just have t’ go back empty-handed.”

“Madame, your brother wanted one thing and you seek to deny him this?” The man presses, impatience leaking into his soft, gentle voice. His accent is quite alarming in the fact that it almost seems . . . _alluring_ , persuasive. “I know that to protect her from us, you had to change her name. He told me of this. Ellen, Faith – whichever name she goes by, James wishes to see her. I promise to return her in safety – and to ensure that she does not come under any sense of harm while she travels with me.” The raw honesty Faith can hear in his words begins to sway her in his favor, despite her better judgements.

“Ye dinna ken tha’.” Jenny’s voice drops, and Faith can’t hear what follows after, even though she strains. When she’s louder again, Faith hears, “Ye should be on yer way, sir. Lallybroch holds no love fer the English within its walls.”

“Wait –” Faith murmurs as she hears John Grey relent. “ _Wait_ , sir!” It’s easy for her to vault through the open window, though she does end up cutting her palms on the way, leaving stinging wounds that start to well with blood. Her landing is clumsy, unbalanced, but there is no time for embarrassment. Not when Jenny might shut her down, and not when this Englishman might leave.

“Sir, please, dinna leave.” Faith’s aware of how she must look – dirty and ragged from her training session with Fergus earlier that morning, absurdly gangly for her age, and with an absolute mess of tangled, fiery hair that needs a proper brushing. She doesn’t look clean and put together, not like her aunt is; no, she looks truly feral. Awkwardly, Faith minds her manners and offers the man a clumsy curtsey. “I am Faith Fraser.”

The man looks at her, his luminous eyes taking in every inch of her underdeveloped body. Every scar, every freckle and every smudge of dirt. “It is nice to meet you, Miss Fraser.” He bows, his every movement radiating a perfect sense of controlled grace. “You look exactly like your father described – and you _do_ look like him. I understand why your aunt is so hesitant to reveal you to the world.”

Jenny’s glare does not need words. The tight set to her jaw lets Faith know that she is in a fine amount of trouble.

“I am John Grey; I am the warden of Ardsmuir Prison. Your father did me a favor, and I promised my services in return. All he wanted from me was to see you. So, I promised him I would do what I could. If you could stand to place your trust in me, I will bring you to your father for a visit.” He _seems_ authentic. Every fiber of Faith’s being longs to trust him, but a whole lifetime of being brought up to distrust every word the English said kept her wary and on edge.

“Yer English,” Faith pauses, aware she was stating the obvious. “I dinna ken if I can trust a word ye say.”

John’s face is alight with sympathy. He crouches down so that they’re at eye level, and gently, John reaches for one of her small hands. Faith gives it willingly, suddenly very conscious of the grime caked under her nails and the callouses lining along her fingers, as well as the bloody scrapes on her palms. She was no lady, that much was for sure.

“Your father told me to tell you this: _Je suis prest_.”

“ _I am ready_ ,” Faith whispers, and lets herself drown the tidal wave of trust she feels for the strange, beautiful Englishman.

* * *

It’s midday by the time Faith has her things together and has washed up enough to be presentable, and was unable to help her excited bouncing the whole time. Mary had a hell of a time combing through her hair when she couldn’t sit still for more than five seconds, and Faith couldn’t stop her nervous apologizing every time Mary begged her to just _sit_. Jenny was pointedly not speaking with her currently – essentially, truly, vibrating with the force of her anger, ready to unleash the second she got Faith alone.

Faith was very, _very_ careful not to be alone with her. She stayed as close to John as she could get without being on top of him. Her mind was completely made up about him; he was to be trusted, and he was one of the good ones. Like her mother. Sometimes, English could be good. Sometimes . . . good could from them, if you were willing to see it.

Jenny, after John placates her with promises and reassurances, only has one request; that Fergus be allowed to come with them on their journey. John is agreeable, and before Faith can truly bring herself to believe it, they’re on their way to Ardsmuir, every hoof step taking her closer and closer to her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to touch more about the feelings of abandonment faith would feel over claire, and how she evidently is so lacking something important in her life. the major jealousy fergus must give her. the stirrings of hate towards the woman that gave her life for disappearing. 
> 
> but it didn't flow as well as i wanted, especially since i feel as if faith is too young yet for such a serious onset of emotions, so i decided to delay a more intensified version of that angst for some later chapters!


	7. cries of home ;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, every chapter update: SORRY FOR THE LATENESS
> 
> again, i apologize! quarantine has left me thrown for a loop just like everyone else, and so i've made it my goal to at least update once a month. this chapter is a bit short and serves an in between, but the next chapter will be longer and actually start from someone else's point of view! 
> 
> i super appreciate all the comments and feedback you guys. <3.

Brianna yells like a madwoman as she runs around in the front yard, pretending that she’s being chased by something or other. Claire watches her carefully through the window, unwilling to repeat another accident. Her daughter was much like her father in the sense that she had a penchant for attracting danger; Claire would be inclined to call her accident prone, but Brianna was graceful and level footed. It just seemed like any and all danger sought her out, as if she were a flaming beacon. She had no evidence that her daughter wasn’t. Their life seemed to ensure that Brianna remained in harm’s way, no matter what she did to prevent it.

The afternoon is wasted that way for Claire, her thoughts drifting as she carefully watches her daughter tire herself out with her games of make believe. Sometimes Claire wonders if Brianna feels the disconnect, the absence of what feels right; she wonders if Brianna knows that she does not belong in this time, that she should be playing with toy swords and chasing cousins around a barnyard as opposed to playing by herself on a closely cropped lawn, tended to with the meticulousness of a man that is obsessed with perfection. This was not the life that Claire would have chosen for her, not if she had had any other choice.

She _should_ be growing up at Lallybroch, with Faith beside her and the Murray clan to be her rallying, protective cousins that serve as her siblings. She should be sitting beside her laird father and lady mother at dinners, utterly well behaved until their audience is gone, and then allowed to sip the wine and make faces when it is too bitter for her liking. She should be growing up with a thick Scottish accent, speaking Gaelic naturally back and forth with her father and sister, a private thing Claire could never truly insert herself into, slinging Scottish curses whenever things don’t go her way. She should be happy, loved, and utterly unaware of the conflict in her home.

All that Claire knew now was that Brianna never should have been separated from Faith, from Jamie, from the Fraser clan as a whole. She should have been born at Lallybroch, should have grown up in her ancestral home; she should have _never_ let Jamie talk her out of coming back. _“This home is lost,”_ Jamie had whispered to her, his sad smile wrenching at her heart. That home had not been lost. It was still there, steady and waiting for her to return.

Her leaving was her own fault, her own mistake to bear.

Claire’s fingertips tap lightly together as she thinks, her mind whirling at a thousand miles a second. The deep-seated urge to take Brianna and run had been growing stronger and stronger as of late, but she was certain that Frank would not allow them to leave without an ugly fight. _Allowing_ him to lay claim to _her_ daughter had been another one of her many mistakes that she had made in the most recent years.

Now, because of this mistake, Brianna had bonded with Frank. She would miss him terribly if Claire decided to return to her heart’s home. Perhaps she would even feel as if Claire had taken her from the parent that loved her most, the parent she was closest to; see her reasonings as a fit of jealousy, of wanting Brianna to love _her_ more than she loved _him_. Claire wouldn’t be able to blame her if her line of reasoning went there. She hadn’t . . . she hadn’t been the mother that she had promised to be. She hadn’t been there for her daughter, and that – that was her cross to bear, her sin to be weighed against her at judgement day.

There had always been reservation inside of her, a need to hold back from Brianna. An overwhelming sense of duty drove her to remain distant, to keep them from becoming too close, too tightly interwoven. If she had to guess why, perhaps it would be too easy for her to fall into old habits of being unable to hide the truth. It’d be too easy bring up Faith, to bring up Jamie, and Lallybroch. To whisper of Scotland and how this life was not for Brianna, nor was it for her. It would be _too easy_ to unleash all the secrets she’s been holding onto for all this time, to burden Brianna with the knowledge that ate away at Claire’s sanity. So easy . . .

Claire closes her eyes with a sigh and gently puts her head in her hands. This home was no home for her, it held absolutely no claim upon her, and it certainly could not keep her here by will alone. It was long past time for her to move on, to return back to the man that haunted her waking dreams, and left her with a deep, insatiable ache that could never be touched by anyone other than Jamie.

Her mind, slowly, becomes more settled than it has been in months. She and Brianna no longer were going to live in this house, no longer live with Frank’s criticism of her dealings with what had happened, no longer stay where they were not wanted.

Well, where _she_ was not wanted. Frank may have pretty words for her, but they were empty, their warmth long gone.

Uncle Lamb wouldn’t mind housing them for a few weeks, long enough for Claire to determine what she knew to be true. He made it quite clear that he missed her presence around the home and wished to see his little Brianna once more. Claire knew that he knew that Brianna was not Frank’s; the way he would look at her, eyes worried and brows drawn together, the question was there. Unanswered. Not needing to be verbalized, because just _looking_ at Brianna let you know that she was not his daughter. The red hair in itself was a dead giveaway.

Once she had the information that would heal her heart, once things were in order, and once Brianna _understood_ , things were going to be set right. She was going to fix what had been broken, return the pieces back to their original shape, and make their family whole.

* * *

The Grey mansion is stunning, a magnificent example of money and English status. It overshadows the simple beauty that Lallybroch held, the glimmering jewel of childhood that brought naught but reassurance and welcoming to a lady as young as herself. Even with all of its hidden rooms, its size and luxuries, it could never hold a candle to the home that she had been raised in. Lallybroch would always be the place she would go to for comfort, for protection; it would always be the home that called to her when she needed it to.

Staying in the mansion, even just for a few nights at a time, was an uncomfortable experience. Faith was not used to featherdown beds, not used to heavy, spice-heavy foods; she was not used to being waited on and treated as if she were some form of royalty. Being treated like this was not comforting, nor was it something she enjoyed; in fact, Faith found an absolute annoyance, and completely lazy. She was fully able to fend for herself without the use of servants.

Lord John was a gracious host; he brought her back and forth between Lallybroch and the Grey estate, continuously saying that it was of no issue to him, that it was the least that he could do for her. To repay her father. He was feeding her, clothing her, giving her transport – all for a _favor_ her father had done for him. If Faith were a little older, and perhaps a little wiser, she would know that there was more to it than what was on the surface. But she was young, blinded by childhood innocence, and thusly unable to see what truly lay between her father and John.

Jenny grew to like Lord John, when she actually bothered to try and get to know him. He was kind, all too willing to bring Fergus along on these trips without complaints, and even on request, he had taken Rabbie and Jamie along with them. He was more than equipped to handle four rambunctious Scottish children that were bored with their usual haunts, and had even stated more than once that he appreciated how their youthfulness brightened the empty, dark manor up, and brought more energy to it than it had seen in years.

Faith saw her father frequently, enough that she was able to document the strangeness of the prison. Lord John was a lax man but kept to the rules when absolutely necessary; he was not one for excessive punishment, and he tried to help prisoners whenever he could. It was because of his willingness to pull Jamie out of his dark, suffering hole that they were even here to begin with; Lord John executed such a kindness, such a sense of compassion that it almost didn’t feel like a prison for war criminals.

But, even if it appeared to be something else, it still was an environment of suffering. It still tore parents from their children, husbands from their wives; it still was a breeding ground for illnesses, abuse, and subsequently death.

After almost a full year of John transporting her back and forth between Lallybroch and the Grey estate, he brought up an idea that Jenny didn’t like in the slightest; moving Faith to the Grey estate. He brought up good points; Faith could have a proper education with access to languages and music, and she’d be more protected under the cape of a British officer as opposed to a known Scottish rebel family. That, and she’d be able to see her father whenever she pleased, no longer constrained by when John could send for her and when the carriage would arrive.

He also mentioned that it’d be safer; even though none dared attack a carriage with a British insignia, it still tended to happen on occasion. More than once they had been stopped by a party lying in wait on the road and only gotten away by the skin of their teeth. John’s solution could put a stop to the problem, and even though Jenny was firmly against it at first, she grew to understand where he was coming from. Why _this_ was their best option.

The curtains were pulled back in the room that she shared with Katherine, letting in warm shafts of sunlight that illuminated the dust bunnies in the air. Her bag looked small and pathetic with her few belongings packed neatly in it and weighed less than the cats that hung around in the barnyard.

Faith liked Lord John. She enjoyed his charming personality, his kind wit; he made her feel protected and safe, and the opportunities that his position could offer her . . . Faith dreamed of being an educated woman, longed for it in all actuality; but her status as a woman could never allow her into any university, and Lallybroch could only bring her so far. John was giving her a future that she couldn’t let fall out of her reach, a future that she couldn’t afford to lose sight of.

“She’s but a wee lass, ye must remember that.” Jenny’s voice filters through the house, sounding particularly loud on the landing. “Faith thinks she can take on anythin’, but we all ken she canna. Yer’ bein’ trusted wit’ the most precious o’ Lallybroch’s secrets.”

Quietly coming onto the landing, Faith places her bag down and crouches by the banister, listening for John’s response. He had come here to escort her himself, and now he stood regal and proud in the kitchen, unbowing to Jenny’s scathing words.

“I understand this, Mistress Murray. I also understand what Mister Fraser will do to me if any harm befalls his only child. My only intention is to protect Faith, and to offer her the most of this world. Your brother also made it very clear that this is also what he wants. She will be protected with me, I swear.” John’s voice was soothing, a calm proclamation of facts.

“I dinna like it,” Jenny’s harsh chopping enunciate her words. “I canna help but feel it’ll put her ‘n more danger. Bein’ right under the British’s nose . . .” She snorts, an unflattering sound. “Been tryin’ verra hard t’ avoid that again, as o’ late.”

It had been difficult for the entire family when the British were less than a centimeter away from discovering Faith, stashed right under their noses. Discovery often had only been moments away, and now they were asking for even more trouble. Faith understood that her name would have to be changed again in order for her to be able to stay with John, and that she was going to have to play a role that she might not like in order to fit in. She would not just be playing house with John; this was going to be a dangerous game, one where she might become in danger of losing.

“I can agree that it will put her right back in danger, but isn’t this the least likely place they’ll look? I know they’ve come around here again, asking for her. I know they’ve threatened your husband and arrested him again. This will be a solution to all the haggling. I promised safety, and that is what I will provide.” John sounds incredibly sincere. “I wish no harm to her or your family. You all are precious to Jamie, and he – well . . . he is precious to me.”

There’s a long silence. “Ye best watch yerself wit’ Jamie.” Something in Jenny’s voice is hateful, seething with a darkness, but it holds a warning. A warning that John seems to understand. “He wil’na be forgiving.”

John chuckles, surprisingly glib. “I know. Against all odds, he is tolerant. I do not want him that way, mistress. I am content to be his friend, and I know his heart belongs to his wife. His friendship is meaningful to me, and it is something that I do not wish to make a mess of.”

The chopping resumes. _Chop, chop, chop_. Solid sound against the wood as silence stretches between the two adults. Faith can only imagine the kind of tension that the room holds. “Has he told ye o’ th’ mistress?”

“Claire? Oh, no. Other than passing remarks of how she is gone, she is his most closely guarded secret. I take it that she is not deceased, or else he would say as much.” John shifts, his gear crinkling loudly enough that Faith can hear it. She waits, heart in her throat, as Jenny takes her time to respond.

“I canna tell ye,” the chopping stops. “But if ye love him as we do, if ye love _her_ as we do, one day. Jamie doesna like keeping secrets; it eats away at th’ soul. Give him time. ‘Tis his burden t’ let go of.”

Frustration pulses hot in Faith’s veins as she sits back, missing John’s response as she frowns. And just like that, Jenny had said everything while saying nothing at all. She already _knew_ her father was keeping secrets. She already _knew_ something strange surrounded her mother, like a mysterious shroud that kept her far out of reach; impossible to see, impossible to touch. She knew this. Jenny gave this mystery to a stranger, an outsider, before she would give it to her. What was so important about her mother that she could never be told outright?

Gathering up her woefully short bag, Faith makes sure to make her steps noticeable as she comes down the stairs, wiping herself of all frustration before rounding into the kitchen. John is hovering in the doorway, cheeks flushed, and Jenny is turned away at the counter. The knife glides smoothly in her grasp, chopping a freshly washed potato into fine cubes. If she had not been listening from the landing, Faith would have had no idea that there was anything amiss here.

“Are you ready, mistress?” John holds his arm out towards her, and one of his brows is cocked artfully on his forehead.

“I am.” Faith hands him her bag with precious few belongings. “Mam –”

“Hush, lass.” Jenny swoops her up into a tight hug, and Faith holds onto the only woman who has loved her like a mother. “I ken. Ye also ken Lallybroch will always be yer home.”

Faith doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she nods. Jenny’s hand smooths through her tangled curls, and she lets out a choked laugh. The words were unspoken; Jenny hated the state of her hair. Many times, they had had arguments about how Faith could afford to be a little neater, could afford to take better care of her hair and her clothes. “I dinna think I will ever be as neat ‘n clean as Katy.”

Jenny chuckles. “Yer just like yer father. Dirty little wretch, always ‘n complete disarray.” There’s no heat in her voice. “Now, go ‘n. Don’t make John wait any longer fer ye. He has enjoyed my company long enough.”

Rolling her eyes, Faith untangles herself from Jenny, surprised to find herself so worked up about leaving. She thought it would have been easy, just like shedding one of her skirts, but now that the moment had arrived, Lallybroch clung to her like a stubborn burr. She’d miss Jenny yelling at her army of children to wash up for dinner, Rabbie’s mean teases, the secret practices she and Fergus had in the woods every day, Ian’s kindness and his willingness to teach her arithmetic. She’d miss Katy, too, and their shared room; how they could always spend time together without getting sick of one another, for comfortable silence was a common trait they shared. All the memories here would be left behind, and she’d be alone somewhere completely new, utterly unfamiliar.

But home was where her father was, and he was not here. Lallybroch was home no longer. One day again, perhaps, it would be. For now, it was time to let this home go.

John gestures for her to follow, so Faith does, falling easily in step behind him. At the stoop waits Fergus, his silly grin taking up half his face, eyes glinting with amusement. He’s lounging, long, thin legs taking up almost all the space on the steps. His own bag is slung over his shoulder, even heavier than Faith’s. “What, you think you could be rid of me?” His laugh is tinkling and gentle. “ _Au contraire_ , I told milord I would protect you no matter what.”

“Fergus, you are welcome at my home, but you need not stay if you wish to live here with the rest of your family.” John looks at him seriously, his expression becoming concerned. Faith found it kind that John refused to take Fergus’ adoption into consideration and treated him as if he truly belonged with the Fraser clan in its whole, and not just with Jamie. “You can come and visit if you desire; you need not commit to being so far from Lallybroch.”

“I belong with milord. Milord is locked away, so I will go with _la petite sœur_.” His hands clasp the nape of his neck as he winks sheepishly. “You cannot be rid of me.”

“Please, _take him_.” Rabbie complains. “Ye canna believe what an annoyance that smug frog-eater is.” He comes around the side of the carriage, Jamie close behind, his ever-present shadow. There’s a sly grin on Rabbie’s face, and humor glints in his eyes. “Good riddance t’ both.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Jamie hisses, and Rabbie’s expression becomes glowering. Rabbie tended to go too far unless he had someone watching his words, and for Jamie, that was a full-time job. “I’ll miss ye, Faith.” For once, her envious cousin seems genuine as he addresses her with his goodbye.

“Ye’ll be glad not t’ have someone kickin’ yer arse at everythin’,” Faith promises, watching as annoyance flits over Jamie’s face. She was still taller than him, and still better at swordplay. In the most recent weeks, she had managed to surpass Rabbie; Fergus was next. “I’ll miss ye too.”

Tentatively, Jamie smiles.

“Alright, alright, we best get on. Only so much daylight, and we have a long way to go.” John sets Faith’s bag inside the carriage and helps her up, and then steps back to watch Fergus gracefully sling himself up. Once John joined them, on the bench opposite of the one she and Fergus were shoved onto, it was a bit cramped, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

The ride back to the Grey estate was long, and it suddenly became quite damp as the perpetual gray skies overhead suddenly released into a torrential downpour. They had to pull over at an inn with a stable for a short time, just to wait out the worst of the storm and prevent the horses from becoming too spooked to continue. John wanted to push on even though it was pitch black out, and they luckily made it home before anything could happen to them.

Faith’s room was the largest in the east wing, and after a long, restful sleep, she committed to unpacking and moving herself in. Fergus had a room across the hall from her, and John slept in the west wing, where he was closer to his office. Guests often slept in that wing as well, but John made it clear that it wasn’t often they had guests in the manor. For now, the estate was just going to be shared between the three of them and the staff.

In the morning, when Faith finally drags herself out of bed for breakfast, she finds John in considerable contemplation. He’s loosely dressed in a pair of slacks and a white button down, and his brow is furrowed as he stares into his morning tea.

“Good morning, Faith. How was your night?” John asks once he notices her, and the crooked smile that pulls up his lips is infectious.

“Morning,” Faith yawns as she sits down across from him, incredibly aware of the fact that Fergus was not yet awake. “I slept well, thank ye.”

Something in John’s expression slips. “We’ll have to work on your English accent,” he says slowly, testing the words, seeing how Faith reacts to them. When she says nothing, he continues, albeit with much more reluctance. “Faith, living here – you won’t be able to live here as Faith Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser, no, not with that mouthful of a name. We’ll have to present you with a new identity, and not the one that you used in Lallybroch.”

 _Ellen Fitzgibbons Beauchamp_. She had hated that name with a passion, and even if John had allowed her to use it, she would have refused. “Okay . . .”

“An _English_ identity, Faith.” John stresses.

“I get t’ pick the name.” Faith answers instantly, and John chuckles.

“We’ll have to work on your English accent, but I was thinking that we could pass you off as a cousin from my extended family. We could say that your father sent you here to continue your education, and to have me scout for a potential suitor.” John’s expression becomes cloudy with his ideas. “It would explain your presence as well as your educational pursuits; no one would think twice about it. Of course, we’ll also have to settle on a place for you to hail from . . . Sussex, perhaps?”

“No.” Faith states firmly, watching John’s expression reveal his surprise. “London. My mother was born there.”

Fondness is a pretty look on John’s beautiful features. “London it is, then.”

* * *

Elizabeth Murray Grey is a girl that Faith could have never been friends with, let alone _pretended_ to be. She’s a prim and proper English lady, the complete opposite of the outlandish mess that Faith had been. She adapts well enough, clinging to the promise that it wasn’t going to be forever. Elizabeth Murray Grey might be her present for now, but she’d be one with herself once again. The Fraser within her was not doomed to fizzle out and die prematurely.

Her father often found glib humor in her position, and the awkwardness of unlearning everything that had once felt natural to her. As the days turned into months, he seemed to grow more and more depressed, all for a reason that Faith could not understand. She tried her best to get her father to open up about it, to confide in her, but he was just as stubborn as she was and would often tell her not to worry herself.

“ _Dinna fash, lass,_ ” he’d say in his dad-voice, and the topic would be dropped.

John kept good on his promise of educating her. During her time at the estate, she picked up both the piano and violin as her musical instruments of choice – and she was excelling in her lessons. Already being fluent in two languages, Faith was easily able to tack on another, and another, and another after that – all with increasing ease and consistent opportunity to practice. John was well-versed in language himself, and Faith oft begged for him to help her practice when he was not preforming his duties as warden.

Fergus, pretending to be sickened by the ides of English high society, settled nicely into his new position as a stable hand. He claimed that, truly, being part of the staff would be the only way to help him escape from the sickening example of the world he left – and that the workload reminded him of Lallybroch. When she had asked him, privately, for a more serious answer, Fergus had told her that he did not care for high society in the slightest, and he didn’t wish to hang around as they parade under falsities and act as if the sun rained down honey.

Faith, unfortunately, had to agree with his point. The English were certainly a dull bunch; every single time she went to do something that was well within the realm of her freedom, John was always chastising her, telling her that now she was _English_ , there were certain rules to be followed.

Rules like having tea with the local young girls every Saturday afternoon, the dullest affair Faith has ever attended – and she even sat through one of crazy Father Massey’s ramblings about how Satan would steal away their babes in the dead of night and turn them into demons. Albeit hilarious, his rant had taken up a majority of the afternoon, and Faith’s legs had been numb from being still for so long by the time he finally released her.

It wasn’t that Faith didn’t like the local woman – in fact, if she had been born English and had grown up with their ways, she might actually grow to be very fond of them. They were just such a gossipy flock, and quite interested in their _promised men_. If this scheduled social outing wasn’t for the sake of appearances, Faith would weasel her way out of it.

Other than the slight bumps – her struggle to maintain an English accent, the lonely lessons that provided her with enough knowledge than she knew what to do with, the horrendous torture of tea time, and the fact that John’s English friends were the most stuck-up pretentious twats she’s ever met – this strange plan had a high chance of working.


End file.
